THE CARPETBAGGERS - 12

THE CARPETBAGGERS
HAROLD ROBBINS

(  INSTALMENT 12  )


THE STORY OF
JENNIE DENTON

BOOK EIGHT 


ONE


JENNIE WALKED THROUGH THE CURTAINED DOORWAY INTO THE CAMERA and the director shouted, "Cut! Wrap it up!" And it was over.

She stood there for a moment, dazed, blinking her eyes for a moment as the powerful kliegs dimmed. Then the oppressive August heat came down on her and she felt faint. She reached out a hand to steady herself. As if from a distance, she heard the giant sound stage turn into bedlam. It seemed that everybody was laughing and talking at once.

Someone pressed a glass of water into her hands. She drank it quickly, gratefully. Suddenly, she began to shiver, feeling a chill, and the dresser quickly threw a robe over her shoulders, covering the diaphanous costume. "Thank you," she whispered.

"You're welcome, Miss Denton," the dresser said. He looked at her peculiarly for a moment. "You feeling all right?"

"I'm fine," Jennie said. She felt cold perspiration breaking out on her forehead. The dresser gestured and the make-up man hurried up. He swabbed at her face quickly with a moist sponge. The faint aroma of witch hazel came up in her nostrils and she began to feel better.

"Miss Denton," the make-up man said, "you'd better lie down for a while. You're exhausted."

Docilely she let him lead her back to the small portable dressing room. She looked back over her shoulder as she went in. The bottles were out and the whisky flowing. Everyone was gathered around the director, shouting congratulations, supplying him with the adoration they felt necessary to insure their employment on his next picture. Already, they seemed to have forgotten her.

She closed the door behind her and stretched out on the cot. She closed her eyes wearily. The three months the picture was supposed to take had stretched out into five. Five months of day-and-night shooting, of exhaustion, of getting up at five o'clock in the morning and falling into bed like a stone at midnight, and sometimes later. Five months, until all the meaning that had been in the script was lost in a maze of retakes, rewrites and plain confusion.

She began to shiver again and pulled the light wool blanket up over her and lay there trembling. She closed her eyes. She turned on her side, drawing her knees up and hugging herself. Slowly the heat from her body condensed around her and she began to feel better.

When she opened her eyes, Ilene Gaillard was seated on a chair opposite. She hadn't even heard her come into the small room. "Hello," Jennie said, sitting up. "Was I asleep long?"

Ilene smiled. "About an hour. You needed it."

"I feel so silly," Jennie said. "I usually don't go off like that. But I felt so weak."

"You've been under a terrible strain. But you have nothing to worry about. When this picture comes out, you're going to be a big star—one of the biggest."

"I hope so," Jennie said humbly. She looked at Ilene. "When I think of all those people, how hard they worked and how much they put into the picture. I couldn't bear it if I turned out to be a disappointment to them."

"You won't. From what I saw of the rushes, you were great." Ilene got to her feet and looked down at Jennie. "I think you could use a hot drink."

Jennie smiled when she saw Ilene take down the can of cocoa. "Chocolate?"

"Why not?" Ilene said. "It will give you more energy than tea. Besides, you don't have to worry about your diet any more. The picture is finished."

"Thank God for that," Jennie said, standing up. "One more lunch of cottage cheese and I was ready to throw up." She crossed the tiny room to the closet. "I might as well get out of this."

Ilene nodded. She watched as Jennie slipped out of the costume—the sheer, flowing silk harem pantaloons, the diaphanous gauze blouse and gold-beaded blue velvet jacket that had been her costume in the last scene. She scanned the girl's figure appreciatively, her designer's eyes pleased with what she saw.

She was glad now that Jonas had sent for her. She had not felt that way at first. She hadn't wanted to come back to Hollywood, back to the gossip, the jockeying for importance, the petty jealousies. But most of all, she hadn't wanted to come back to the memories.

But as she'd studied the photograph, something about the girl had drawn her back. She could understand what Jonas had seen in her. There was something of Rina about her but she also had a quality that was peculiarly her own.

It wasn't until she'd studied the photograph a long while that she realized what it was. It was the strangely ascetic translucence that shone from the photograph despite its purely sensuous appeal. The eyes in the picture looked out at you with the clear innocence of a child, behind their worldly knowledge. It was the face of a girl who had kept her soul untouched, no matter what she had experienced.

Jennie fastened her brassière and pulled the thick black sweater down until it met the top of her baggy slacks. She sat down and took the cup of steaming chocolate from Ilene. "Suddenly, I'm empty," she said, sipping at it. "I'm all used up."

Ilene smiled and tasted her own cup of chocolate. "Everyone feels like that when a picture is finished."

"I feel that I could never make another movie," Jennie continued thoughtfully. "That another part wouldn't make any sense to me at all. Somehow, it's like all of me went into this picture and I've nothing left at all."

Ilene smiled again. "That will disappear the moment they put the next script into your hands."

"Do you think so?" Jennie asked. "Is that what happens?"

Ilene nodded. "Every time."

A blast of noise came through the thin walls. Jennie smiled. "They're having themselves a ball out there."

"Cord ordered a table of food sent down from the commissary. He's got two men tending bar." Ilene finished her chocolate and put the cup down. She got to her feet and looked down at the girl. "I really came in to say good-by."

Jennie looked up at her questioningly. "You're leaving?"

Ilene nodded. "I'm going back East on the train tonight."

"Oh," Jennie said. She put down her cup and stood up. She held her hand out to Ilene. "Thank you for everything you've done. I've learned a great deal from you."

Ilene took her hand. "I didn't want to come back but I'm glad now that I did."

They shook hands formally. "I hope we'll work together again," Jennie said.

Ilene started for the door. She looked back at Jennie. "I'm sure that we will," she said. "If you want me, write. I'd be glad to come."

In a moment, the door opened again and Al Petrocelli, the publicity manager, stuck his head in. A blast of music came from behind him. "Come on," he said. "The party's going great guns. Cord sent over an orchestra."

She put down her cigarette. "Just a minute," she said, turning to the mirror and straightening her hair.

He stared at her. "You're not coming like that?" he asked incredulously.

"Why not? The picture's finished."

He came into the room and closed the door behind him. "But, Jennie baby, try to understand. Life magazine is covering the party. How would it look to their readers if the star of the biggest picture we've made in ten years was wearing a loose black sweater and pants? We've got to give 'em more to look at than that."

"I’m not getting into that costume again," Jennie said stubbornly.

"Please, baby. I promised them some cheesecake."

"If that's what they want, give them the photo file."

"Now is no time to make with the temperament," Al said. "Look, you've been a good girl up to now. Just this once, please."

"It's O.K., Al." Bonner's voice came from behind him. "If Jennie doesn't want to change, she doesn't have to." He smiled his pleasantly ugly smile as he came into the tiny dressing room. "As a matter of fact," he said, "I think it might be a welcome change for Life's readers."

Al looked at him. "O.K. if you say so, Mr. Bonner," he said.

Bonner turned to her, smiling. "Well, you did it."

She didn't answer, just looked at him.

"I’ve been thinking about you," he said, his eyes on her face. "You're going to be a big star."

She didn't say anything.

"The Sinner is going to be a tough picture to follow."

"I hadn't thought about it," she said.

"Of course. You haven't and neither has Jonas." Bonner laughed. "But why should you? That's not your job. It's mine. All Jonas does is what he feels like doing. If he wants to make a picture, he makes a picture. But it might be another eight years before he feels like it again."

"So?" she said, meeting his eyes levelly.

He shrugged his shoulders. "It's up to me to keep you working. If you go that long between pictures, they’ll forget all about you." He reached into his jacket for a package of cigarettes. "Is that Mexican woman still working for you?"

"Yes."

"Still living in the same place?"

"Of course."

"I thought I might drop by one evening next week," he said. "I’ve got some scripts we might go over."

She was silent.

"Jonas is going away," he said. "To Canada, on a business trip." He smiled. "You know, I think it's fortunate he hasn't heard any of the stories about you, don't you?"

She let her breath out slowly. "Yes."

"I thought maybe Wednesday night."

"You'd better call first," she said through stiff lips.

"Of course, I forgot. Nothing has changed, has it?"

She looked up at him. "No," she said dully. Then she walked past him to the door. A great weariness came into her. Nothing had changed. Things turned out the way they always did for her. Nothing ever changed but the currency.


TWO


SHE AWOKE TO THE SIGHT OF WHITE LINEN FLOATING IN THE WIND ON THE CLOTHESLINE OUTSIDE THE WINDOW. The rich aroma of corned beef and cabbage, wafting into her room on the heavy summer breeze from the kitchen next door, told her it was Sunday. It was always like that on Sundays, only when you were a little girl it had been more fun.

On Sundays, when she'd returned from church with her mother, her father would be awake and smiling, his mustache neatly trimmed and waxed, his face smooth and smelling of bay rum. He tossed her into the air and caught her as she came down, hugging her close to him and growling, "How is my little Jennie Bear this morning? Is she sweet and filled with God's holiness fresh from the fount in the back of the church?"

He laughed and she laughed and sometimes even her mother laughed, saying, "Now, Thomas Denton, is that the proper way for a father to talk to his own daughter, sowing in her the seeds of his own disobedience to God's will?"

Her father and mother were both young and filled with laughter and happiness and God's own good sunshine that shone down on San Francisco Bay. And after the big dinner, he dressed himself carefully in his good blue suit and took her by the hand and they went out of the house to seek adventure.

They first met adventure on the cable car that ran past their door. Holding her in his arms, her father leaped aboard the moving car, and waving his blue-and-white conductor's pass, which entitled him to ride free on any of the company's cars, pushed forward to the front of the car, next to the motorman. There he held her face up to the rushing wind until the breath caught in her throat and she thought she'd burst with the joy of the fresh, sweet wind in her lungs.

"This is my daughter, my Jennie Bear," he shouted to all who would listen, holding her proudly so that all who cared to look could see.

And the passengers, who up to now had been engrossed in their own private thoughts, smiled at her, sharing somehow in the joy that glowed like a beacon in her round and shining face.

Then they went to the park, or sometimes to the wharf, where they ate hot shrimp or crabs, swimming in garlic, and her father drank beer, great foaming glasses of it, bought from the bootlegger who operated quite openly near the stands. But only to wash away the smell of the garlic, of course. Or sometimes, they went out to the zoo and he bought her a bag of peanuts to feed the elephant or the monkeys in their cages. And they returned in the evening, and she was tired and sometimes asleep in her father's arms. And the next day was Monday and she couldn't wait until it would be Sunday again.

No, nothing passed as quickly as the Sundays of your childhood. And then she went to school, frightened at first of the sisters, who were stern and forbidding in their black habits. Her small round face was serious above her white middy blouse and navy-blue guimpe. But they taught you the catechism and you made your confirmation and lost your fear as bit by bit you accepted them as your teachers, leading you into a richer Christian life, and the happy Sundays of your childhood fled deeper and deeper into the dim recesses of your mind, until you hardly remembered them any more.

Jennie lay quietly on her sixteen-year-old bed, her ears sharpening to the sounds of the Sunday morning. For a moment, there was only silence, then she heard her mother's shrill voice. "Mr. Denton, for the last time, it's time to get up and go to Mass."

Her father's voice was husky, the words indistinguishable. She could see him in her mind's eyes, lying unshaven and bloated with Saturday-night beer in his long woolen underwear, on the soft, wide bed, burying his face in the big pillow. She heard her mother again. "But I promised Father Hadley ye'd come this Sunday for sure. If ye have no concern for your own soul, at least have some for your wife's and daughter's."

She heard no reply, then the door slammed as her mother retreated to the kitchen. Jennie swung her bare feet onto the floor, searching for her slippers. She found them and stood up, the long white cotton nightgown trailing down to her ankles as she crossed the room.

She came out into the kitchen on her way to the bathroom and her mother turned from the stove. "Ye can wear the new blue bonnet I made for ye to Mass, Jennie darlin'."

"Yes, Mother," she said.

She brushed her teeth carefully, remembering what Sister Philomena had told the class in Hygiene. Circular strokes with the brush, reaching up onto the gums, then down, would remove all the food particles that might cause decay. She examined her teeth carefully in the mirror. She had nice teeth. Clean and white and even.

She liked being clean. Not like many of the girls at Mercy High School, who came from the same poor neighborhood and bathed only once a week, on Saturdays. She took a bath every night—even if she had to heat the water in the kitchen of the old tenement in which they lived.

She looked at her face out of her clear gray eyes and tried to imagine herself in the white cap and uniform of a nurse. She'd have to make up her mind soon. Graduation was next month and it wasn't every student who could get a scholarship to St. Mary's College of Nursing.

The sisters liked her and she'd always received high marks throughout her attendance at Mercy. Besides, Father Hadley had written Mother M. Ernest, commending her for her devout attendance and service to the church, not like so many of the young ladies today, who spent more time in front of a mirror over their make-up than on their knees in church in front of their God. Father Hadley had expressed the hope that the Good Mother would find a way to reward this poor deserving child for her devotion.

The scholarship to St. Mary's was given each year to the one student whose record for religious and scholastic achievements was deemed the most worthy by a committee headed by the Archbishop. This year, it was to be hers, if she decided to become a nurse. This morning, after church, she'd have to present herself to Mother M. Ernest, at the Sister House, to give her answer.

"It is God's mercy you'll be dispensing," Sister Cyril had said, after informing her of the committee's choice. "But you will have to make the decision. It may be that attending the sick and helpless is not your true vocation."

Sister Cyril had looked up at the girl standing quietly in front of her desk. Already, Jennie was tall and slim, with the full body of a woman, and yet there was a quiet innocence in the calm gray eyes that looked back at her. Jennie did not speak. Sister Cyril smiled at her. "You have a week to make up your mind," she said gently. "Go to the Sister House next Sunday after Mass. Mother Mary Ernest will be there to receive your answer."

Her father had cursed angrily when he heard of the scholarship. "What kind of life is that for a child? Cleaning out the bedpans of dirty old men? The next thing you know, they'll talk her into becoming a nun."

He turned violently to her mother. "It's all your doing," he shouted. "You and those priests you listen to. What's so holy about taking a child with the juices of life just beginning to bubble inside of her and locking her away behind the walls of a convent?"

Her mother's face was white. "It's blasphemy you're speaking, Thomas Denton," she said coldly. "If only once you'd come and speak to the good Father Hadley, ye'd learn how wrong ye are. And if our daughter should become a religious, it's the proudest mother in Christendom I'd be. What is wrong in giving your only child as a bride to Christ?"

"Aye," her father said heavily. "But who'll be to blame when the child grows up and finds you've stolen from her the pleasures of being a woman?"

He turned to Jennie and looked down at her. "Jennie Bear," he said softly, "it's not that I object to your becoming a nurse if you want to. It's that I want you to do and be whatever you want to be. Your mother and I, we don't matter. Even what the church wants doesn't matter. It's what you want that does." He sighed. "Do you understand, child?"

Jennie nodded. "I understand, Papa."

"Ye'll not be satisfied till ye see your daughter a whore," her mother suddenly screamed at him.

He turned swiftly. "I'd rather see her a whore of her own free choice," he snapped, "than driven to sainthood."

He looked down at Jennie, his voice soft again. "Do you want to become a nurse, Jennie Bear?"

She looked up at him with her clear gray eyes. "I think so, Papa."

"If it's what you want, Jennie Bear," he said quietly, "then I’ll be content with it."

Her mother looked at him, a quiet triumph in her eyes. "When will ye learn ye cannot fight the Lord, Thomas Denton?"

He started to answer, then shut his lips tightly and strode from the apartment.

******

Sister Cyril knocked at the heavy oaken door of the study. "Come in," called a strong, clear voice. She opened the door and gestured to Jennie.

Jennie walked into the room hesitantly, Sister Cyril behind her. "This is Jennie Denton, Reverend Mother."

The middle-aged woman in the black garb of the Sisterhood looked up from her desk. There was a half-finished cup of tea by her hand. She studied the girl with curiously bright, questioning eyes. After a moment, she smiled, revealing white, even teeth. "So you're Jennie Denton," she said, holding out her hand.

Jennie curtsied quickly and kissed the ring on the finger of the Reverend Mother. "Yes, Reverend Mother." She straightened up and stood in front of the desk stiffly.

Mother M. Ernest smiled again, a hint of merriment coming into her eyes. "You can relax, child," she said. "I'm not going to eat you."

Jennie smiled awkwardly.

The Reverend Mother raised a questioning eyebrow. "Perhaps you'd like a cup of tea?" she asked. "A cup of tea always makes me feel better."

"That would be very nice," Jennie said stiffly.

The Reverend Mother looked up and nodded at Sister Cyril. "I’ll get it, Reverend Mother," the nun said quickly.

"And another cup for me, please?" Mother M. Ernest turned back to Jennie. "I do love a good cup of tea." She smiled. "And they do have that here. None of those weak tea balls they use in the hospitals; real tea, brewed in a pot the way tea should be. Won't you sit down, child?"

The last came so fast that Jennie wasn't quite sure she'd heard it. "What, ma'am?" she stammered.

"Won't you sit down, child? You don't have to be nervous with me. I want to be your friend."

"Yes, ma'am," Jennie said and sat down, even more nervous than before.

The Reverend Mother looked at her for a few moments. "So you've decided to become a nurse, have you?"

"Yes, Reverend Mother."

Now the Reverend Mother's curiously bright eyes were upon her. "Why?" she asked suddenly.

"Why?" Jennie was surprised at the question. Her eyes fell before the Reverend Mother's gaze. "Why?" She looked up again, her eyes meeting the Reverend Mother's. "I don't know. I guess I never really thought about it."

"How old are you, child?" the Reverend Mother asked.

"I’ll be seventeen next month, the week before graduation."

"It was always your ambition to be a nurse and help the sick, ever since you were a little child, wasn't it?"

Jennie shook her head. "No," she answered candidly. "I never thought about it much until now."

"Becoming a nurse is very hard work. You'll have very little time to yourself at St. Mary's. You'll work and study all day; at night, you'll live at the school. You'll have only one day off each month to visit your family." The Reverend Mother turned the handle of her cup delicately so that it pointed away from her. "Your boy friend might not like that."

"But I haven't got a boy friend," Jennie said.

"But you came to the junior and senior proms with Michael Halloran," the Reverend Mother said. "And you play tennis with him every Saturday. Isn't he your boy friend?"

Jennie laughed. "No, Reverend Mother. He's not my boy friend, not that way." She laughed again, this time to herself, as she thought of the lanky, gangling youth whose only romantic thoughts were about his backhand. "He's just the best tennis player around, that's all." Then she added, "And someday I'm going to beat him."

"You were captain of the girl's tennis team last year?"

Jennie nodded.

"You won't have time to play tennis at St. Mary's," the Reverend Mother said.

Jennie didn't answer.

"Is there anything you'd rather be than a nurse?"

Jennie thought for a moment. Then she looked up at the Reverend Mother. "I’d like to beat Helen Wills for the U.S. tennis championship."

The Reverend Mother began to laugh. She was still laughing when Sister Cyril came in with the tea. She looked across the desk at the girl. "You'll do," she said. "And I have a feeling you’ll make a very good nurse, too."


THREE


TOM DENTON KNEW THERE WAS SOMETHING WRONG THE MOMENT HE CAME UP TO THE WINDOW FOR HIS PAY ENVELOPE. Usually, the paymaster was ready with a wisecrack, like did he want him to hold the envelope for his wife so that the Saturday-night beer parlors wouldn't get it? But there was no wisecrack this time, no friendly raillery, which had been a part of their weekly meeting for almost fifteen years. Instead, the paymaster pushed the envelope under the slotted steel bars quickly, his eyes averted and downcast.

Tom stared at him for a moment. He glanced quickly at some of the faces on the line behind him. They knew, too. He could see it from the way they were looking at him. An odd feeling of shame came over him. This couldn't be happening to him. Not after fifteen years. His eyes fell and he walked away from the window, the envelope in his hand.

Nobody had to tell him times were bad. This was 1931 and the evidence was all around him. The families on relief, the bread lines, the endless gray, tired faces of the men who boarded his car every morning.

He was almost out of the barn now. Suddenly, he couldn't wait any longer and he ducked into a dark corner to open the pay envelope. He tore at it with trembling fingers. The first thing that came to his hand was the dreaded green slip.

He stared at it unbelievingly. It must be a mistake. They couldn't mean him. He wasn't a one-year or two-year man, not even a five-year man. He had seniority. Fifteen years. They weren't laying off fifteen-year men. Not yet.

But they were. He squinted at the paper in the dim light. Laid off. What a bitter irony. That was the reason given for all the pay cuts — to prevent layoffs. Even the union had told them that.

He shoved the envelope into his pocket, trying to fight the sudden sick feeling of fear that crawled around in his stomach. What was he to do now? All he knew was the cars. He'd forgotten all about everything else he'd ever done. The only other thing he remembered was working as a hod-carrier when he was young.

He came out of the dark barn, blinking his eyes at the daylight. A group of men were standing there on the sidewalk, their worn blue uniforms purplish in the light. One of them called to him. "You got it, too, Denton?"

Tom looked at him. He nodded. "Yes."

"We did, too," another said. "They're letting out the senior men because we're getting a higher rate. All the new men are being kept on."

"Have you been to the union yet?" Tom asked.

"We've been there and back. The hall is closed. The watchman there says come back on Monday."

"Anybody call Riordan?"

"His phone home don't answer."

"Somebody must know where Riordan is," Tom said. "Let's go to the hall and make the watchman let us in. After all, what do we pay dues for if we can't meet there?"

"That's a good idea, Tom. We can't just let them replace us with fifty-five-centers, no matter what they say."

They began to walk to the union hall, about two blocks from the car barn. Tom strode along silently. In a way, he still couldn't believe it. Ten cents an hour couldn't mean that much to the company. Why, he'd have taken even another cut if they'd asked him. It wasn't right, the way they were doing it. They had to find Riordan. He'd know the answers. He was the union man.

The union hall was dark when they got there and they banged on the door until the old night watchman opened it. "I tol' you fellers Riordan ain't here," he said in an aged, irritated voice.

"Where is Riordan?"

"I don't know," the watchman answered, starting to close the door. "You fellers go home."

Tom put his foot in the door and pushed. The old man went flying backward, stumbling, almost falling. The men surged into the building behind Tom.

"You fellers stay outa here," the old man cried in his querulous voice.

They ignored him and pushed their way into the meeting hall, which was a large room at the end of the corridor. By now, the crowd had swelled to close to thirty men. Once they were in, they stood there uncertainly, not knowing what to do next. They milled around, looking at each other. "Let's go into Riordan's office," Tom suggested. "Maybe we can find out where he is in there."

Riordan's office was a glass-enclosed partition at the end of the meeting hall. They pushed down there but only a few of them were able to squeeze into the tiny cubbyhole. Tom looked down at the organizer's desk. There was a calendar, a green blotter and some pencils on it. He pulled open a drawer, then, one after another, all of them. The only thing he could find were more pencils, and dues blanks and receipts.

The watchman appeared at the back of the hall. "If you fellers don't get outa here," he shouted, "I'm gonna call the cops."

"Go take a shit, old man," a blue-coated conductor shouted back at him.

"Yeah," shouted another. "This is our union. We pay the dues and the rent. We can stay here if we want."

The watchman disappeared back into the corridor. Some of the men looked at Tom. "What do we do now?"

"Maybe we better come back Monday," one of them suggested. "We'll see what Riordan has to say then."

"No," Tom said sharply. "By Monday, nobody will be able to do nothing. We got to get this settled today."

"How?" the man asked.

Tom stood there for a moment, thinking. "The union's the only chance we got. We got to make the union do something for us."

"How can we if Riordan ain't here?"

"Riordan isn't the union," Tom said. "We are. If we can't find him, we got to do it without him." He turned to one of the men. "Patrick, you're on the executive board. What does Riordan usually do in a case like this?"

Patrick took off his cap and scratched at his gray hair. "I dunno," he said thoughtfully. "But I reckon the first thing he'd do would be to call a meetin'."

"O.K." Tom nodded. "You take a bunch of the men back to the barns and tell the day shift to come down here to a meeting right away."

The men moved around excitedly and after a few minutes, several of them left to go back to the car barns. The others stood around, waiting. "If we're to have a meetin'," someone said, "we gotta have an agenda. They don't have no meetin's without they have an agenda."

"The agenda is, can the company lay us off like this," Tom said.

They nodded agreement. "We got rights."

"This meetin' business is givin' me a awful thirst," another man said. "All this talkin' has
dried out me throat somethin' terrible."

"Let's send out for a barrel of beer," a voice yelled from the back.

There was real enthusiasm in the shout of agreement and a collection was quickly taken up. Two men were dispatched on the errand and when they returned, the keg was mounted on a table at the back of the room.

"Now," said one of them, waving his beer glass in front of him, "now we can get down to business!"

The meeting hall was a bedlam of noise and confusion as more than a hundred men milled around, talking and shouting. The first keg of beer had run out long ago. Two new ones rested on the table, pouring forth their refreshment.

Tom pounded on the table with the gavel he'd found in Riordan's desk. "The meeting will now come to order!" he shouted, for the fifth time in as many minutes. He kept pounding on the table until he caught the attention of a few men down at the front.

"Quiet!" one of them bellowed. "Le's hear what good ol' Tom has to say."

The noise subsided to a murmur, then all the men were watching him. Tom waited until it was as quiet as he thought it would get, then he cleared his throat nervously. "We called this meetin' because today the company laid off fifty men an' we couldn't find Riordan to tell us why." He fumbled with the gavel for a moment. "The union, which is supposed to give us protection on our jobs, has now got to act, even if we don't know where Riordan is. The men that were laid off today had seniority an' there's no reason why the company shouldn't take them back."

A roar burst from the crowd.

"While you fellers was drinkin' beer," Tom said, "I looked up the rules in the bylaws printed in my union book, an' it says that a meetin' is entitled to call for a strike vote if more than twenty-five members is present. There's more than twenty-five members here an' I say we should vote a strike by Monday, unless the company takes us back right away."

"Strike! Strike!"

"We've all been faithful employees of the company for many years an' always gave them an honest count an' they got no right to kick us out like that."

"Y-aay!"

"Don't let the nickels stick to your fingers, Tom," a man in the back shouted. "There may be a spotter in the crowd."

There was laughter.

"If there is a spotter," Tom said grimly, "let him go back to the company an' tell 'em what we're doin' here. We'll show 'em they can't push us around."

There was a burst of applause.

Tom waved his hand. "Now we'll vote on a strike," he said. "All in favor say aye."

The men were suddenly quiet. They looked at each other nervously. The door at the back of the hall had opened and Riordan was standing in it. "What's all this loose talk about a strike, men?"

They turned in surprise and stared at him. The ruddy-faced, heavy-set union organizer started down through the meeting hall. A buzz came up as they saw him. It was almost a sigh of relief. Riordan was here. He'd tell them what to do. He'd straighten everything out.

"Hello, Tom," Riordan said, walking around the table. He held out his hand. Tom shook hands with him. It was the first time he'd done so.

"We came down here because we thought the union should be doin' somethin' for us."

Riordan gave him a shrewd look. "Of course, Tom," he said soothingly. "And it's the right thing ye did, too."

Tom sighed in relief. For a moment, he had thought Riordan would be angry at the way they'd come in and taken over the hall. He watched as Riordan turned toward the men and held up his hand. A silence came over the hall.

"Men," Riordan said in his deep voice, "the reason you couldn't find me was I beat it up to the company office the minute I learned about the layoffs. There was no time to call a meeting but I want you to know that the union was right on the job."

A cheer went up from the men. They looked at each other embarrassedly.

"And I want to express my appreciation to Brother Tom Denton here for his prompt action in bringing you all down here to the union hall. It shows that Tom Denton, like every one of you, knows that the union is his friend."

Tom blushed as the men cheered again. Riordan turned back to the crowd. "I've been working all afternoon, fighting with the management, and finally I got them to back down a little."

A loud cheer shook the ceiling.

Riordan raised his hand, smiling. "Don't cheer yet, boys. Like I say, I only got them to back down a little bit, but it's a start. They promised to have more meetings with me next month."

"Are they takin' us back?" Tom asked.

Riordan looked at him, then turned back to the men. "The management agreed to take back ten of the men who were laid off this week. They also agreed to take back ten more men next month."

A strange silence came over the room. The men eyed each other nervously. "But more than fifty of us were laid off," Tom said loudly. "What's ten men out of that many?"

"It's a start, Tom," he said. "You can't do it all at once."

"Why not?" Tom demanded hotly. "They laid us all off at once."

"That's different," Riordan said. "The company has the right to lay off if business is bad."

"We know that. What we're sore about is the way they did it. They paid no attention to the seniority they agreed to in the union agreement. They laid off all the sixty-five-cent men and kept the fifty-five-centers."

"I know," Riordan said. A harsh edge had come into his voice. "But their taking back ten men is a start. It's better than having all fifty of ye out on the street." He turned back to the men. "Ten of you will go back to work. Maybe next month, ten more will go back. That's better than nothing. The company doesn't care if you go on strike. They claim they'll save money by not running."

"I say we take it," one of the men shouted. "Ten of us workin' is better than none workin', like Riordan says."

"No," Tom said angrily, getting to his feet. "The company should take us all back. Each of us has as much right to work as the next one. If all us sixty-five-cent men would accept a cut to fifty-five cents, the company could keep us all on."

Riordan laughed hoarsely. "You hear that, men?" he shouted. "Would you like to take another pay cut?"

There was a murmur from the crowd. They shifted uneasily. "I'd rather take a pay cut than have us all laid off," Tom said.

Riordan glared at him. There was no friendliness in his eyes now. He had been angry ever since he got a call from the company personnel manager, advising him he'd better get down to the union hall. The call had caught him at a very embarrassing time. He got out of bed, cursing as he struggled into his clothing. "What is it, honey?"

"Some jerky conductor has taken over the hall and is talking strike to the boys."

"But he can't do that," his paramour answered in a shocked voice. "You promised the company they'd have no trouble."

"They won't," he said harshly. "Nobody can make Riordan break his word!"

By the time he'd driven down to the union hall, he'd simmered down. But now he was getting angry again. He had a hard enough job explaining to his wife where he was spending his Saturday nights, without having it loused up by a bunch of stupid trolley men.

He turned back to the crowd. "I propose we settle this here and now," he shouted. "You have a choice. Ten men go back to work or you strike."

"Wait a minute," Tom protested.

"The men already turned your proposal down," Riordan snapped. He raised his right hand. "All in favor of returning to work raise your right hand."

About ninety men raised their hands.

"Nays?"

There were only a few raised hands besides Tom's.

"The ayes have it. Now you men go home to your wives. I’ll let you know on Monday which of you go back to work."

Slowly the men began to file out of the room. Tom looked at Riordan but the man didn't meet his eyes. Instead, he went back into his little glass cubbyhole and picked up the telephone.

Tom walked wearily toward the door. Some of the men looked at him, then quickly hurried by, as if they were ashamed to meet his gaze. At the doorway, he turned and looked back. Riordan was still using the telephone.

The night was clear and bright and a warm breeze came in from the bay. He walked along thoughtfully. He wasn't going to be one of the lucky ten who were going to be taken back. He was sure of that. He'd seen the anger in Riordan's eyes. He turned the corner and walked to the car stop on the next block. Idly he wondered if his pass was still good now that he was laid off.

Two men came past him on the darkened street. One of them stopped. "Got a match?"

"Sure," Tom said. He fumbled in his pocket. He might not have a job but matches he still had. He struck the match. The sudden hardening in the man's eyes and the sound of footsteps behind him were a warning that came too late. There was a sharp blow to the back of his head and he stumbled to his knees.

He reached out, grabbing the man in front of him around the legs. The man swore under his breath and kicked upward with his knee, catching Tom in the groin.

Tom grunted from the pain as he went over backward, his head striking the sidewalk. As if from a long way off, he felt the men kicking at him as he lay there. He rolled over toward the edge of the sidewalk and into the gutter.

He felt a hand reach into his pocket and take out his pay envelope. Feebly he tried to grab the hand. "No," he pleaded. "Please, no, that's my pay, it's all I got!"

The man laughed harshly. He aimed a final kick at the side of Tom's head.

Tom saw the heavy boot coming but he couldn't duck away from it. Then the lights exploded in his face and he rolled over, face down, in a puddle of water in the gutter. He came to slowly, painfully, to the sound of water against his face. He moved his head wearily. A gentle rain had begun to fall.

His body ached as he pushed himself up on his hands and slowly got to his feet. He swayed dizzily for a moment and reached out to the street lamp to steady himself. The lamp flickered and then went out. It was almost morning. The sick gray light of the day spilled down around him.

He saw his blue conductor's cap lying in the gutter, not far from where he stood. Slowly he knelt and picked it up. He brushed it off against his coat and walked toward the corner. There was a mirror in the corner of the drugstore window. He paused in front of it and looked at himself.

His uniform was torn and shredded, his tie askew, the shirt buttons ripped away. He put his hand up to his face in touching wonder. His nose was puffed and swollen, and one eye had already turned purple. With the tip of his tongue, he could feel the jagged edges of broken teeth.

He stared for a moment, numb with shock, then he began to understand what had happened to him. Riordan had done it. He was sure of that. That's why Riordan had been on the telephone when he'd left the union hall.

Suddenly, he realized he'd never be able to go back to work for the cable-car company Riordan would see to that, too. He stood there looking at himself and the tears began to run down his cheeks. Everything had gone wrong. Everything. Now he had no job and no money. And worst of all, he'd have to tell Ellen.

She'd never believe he hadn't been out on a drunk, and the ironic thing was that he hadn't so much as taken one glass of beer.


FOUR 


"ARE YE GOIN' TO BE SITTIN' THERE ALL DAY READING THE NEWSPAPERS, STUDYIN' WHAT KIND OF A JOB WOULD SUIT YOUR HIGHNESS BEST?" ELLEN DENTON ASKED CAUSTICALLY.

Her face was grim as she wrapped Jennie's lunch in a piece of wax paper. Tom didn't speak, looking down at the paper again as Jennie came into the room. "Good morning, Mom," she said brightly. "Morning, Daddy."

"Good morning, Jennie Bear," he said, smiling at her. "How's my Winnie Winkle this morning?"

"Just fine, Daddy." It was a private joke between them. He'd called her that when she got a job as a typist in the insurance company last month. It had been just five weeks after he'd lost his job on the cable cars and two weeks after she graduated from Mercy High School.

"You're the Winnie Winkle," he'd said. "But I’ll get something in a few weeks. Then you'll be able to go to St. Mary's, like you planned."

"Ye have too much lipstick on, Jennie," her mother said. "Best take some of it off."

Tom looked at his daughter. She didn't have that much lipstick on. It was much less than most of the girls wore whom he used to see every morning on the cable car.

"Oh, Mother." Jennie protested. "I’m working in an office now, not going to school. I have to look decent."

"Decent ye should look, not painted."

"Aw, Ellen, leave the girl alone," Tom said slowly.

Ellen glared angrily at him. "When you're bringin' home some of the money to feed your family, then ye can talk."

Tom stared at her, his face setting grimly. He could feel the color draining from it. Jennie smiled sympathetically at him and that made it even worse. He never expected Jennie to be pitying him. He tightened his lips against a flood of angry words.

"Golly, I'm going to be late," Jennie said, jumping to her feet. She snatched at the paper bag on the table and started for the door. " 'By, Mom," she said over her shoulder. " 'By, Daddy. Good luck today."

Tom could hear her footsteps running down the stairs. He looked down at the paper again. "Could I have another cup of coffee?"

"No, one cup is all ye get. How much coffee d'ye think we can afford on the child's eleven dollars a week?"

"But you have the coffee right there. It's already made."

"It's for warming again tomorrow mornin'," she said.

He folded the paper carefully, got up and walked into the bathroom. He turned on the tap and let the water run as he took down his shaving brush and razor. He held his hand under the tap. The water was still cold. "Ellen, there's no hot water for my shave."

"Use the cold, then," she called. "Unless ye have a quarter for the gas meter. I'm savin' the gas we have left for the child's bath."

He looked at himself in the mirror. His face had healed from the beating, but his nose was a little crooked now and there were broken edges on his two front teeth. He put down the brush and walked into the kitchen.

Ellen's back was still toward him. He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her around. "Ellen, Ellen," he said gently. "What's happened to us?"

She stared up into his face for a moment, then reached up and pushed his hands from her shoulders. "Don't touch me, Thomas Denton. Don't touch me."

His voice was resigned. "Why, Ellen, why? It's not my fault what happened. It was God's will."

"God's will?" She laughed shrilly. "You're the one to be talkin' of God's will. Him that hasn't been in the church for more years than I can remember. If ye thought more of your Saviour than you did of your Saturday-night beer. He'd have shown ye some of His mercy."

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then he turned, went back into the bathroom and began to shave with the cold water. She hadn't always been like this—sharp-tongued and acid-touched. And fanatical about the church and the priests. Once, she'd been Ellen Fitzgerald, with laughing eyes and dancing feet, and he remembered her at the Irish Ballroom on Day Street the time he first met her.

She was the prettiest girl on the floor that night, with her dark-brown hair and blue eyes and tiny feet. That was in 1912 and they were married the next year. A year after that, Jennie had been born.

He was a motorman with the car line even then, and when he came back from the war, they moved into this apartment. A year later, a son was born.

Poor tiny little Tommy. The world was not long for him and when he was two years old, they laid him to rest in Calvary Cemetery. Jennie was eight then and barely understood what had happened to her brother, but Ellen found her solace in the quiet of the church, and every day she took her daughter there with her. At first, he didn't pay much attention. Ellen's overattachment to her church was only natural; it would wear off soon enough.

But it didn't. He found that out one night, when he reached for her in the bed and found her cold and unresponsive. He felt for her breast inside the heavy cotton nightgown but she turned her back to him. "You've not made your confession in months. I’ll not have ye planting another child in me."

He tried to make a joke of it. "Who wants to make a baby? All I want is a bit of lovin'."

"That's even worse, then," she said, her voice muffled by the pillow. "It's sinful and I'll share no part of that sin."

"Is that what the priests have been dunning into your ears? To deny your husband?"

She didn't answer. He gripped her shoulder and forced her to turn toward him. "Is that it?" he asked fiercely.

"The priests have told me nothing. What I do is of me own doing. I know the Book enough to know right from wrong. And stop your shouting. You'll be waking Jennie in the next room."

"I’ll stop shouting," he said angrily, as the heat of her shoulder came warm into his hands and the fever rose up in him and he took her by force. The spasm shook him and he subsided into a heavy-breathing quiet atop her, his eyes staring into hers.

She looked up at him quietly, not moving, passive as she had been all through his assault upon her. A last shiver drained his vitals. Then she spoke. Her voice was calm and distant and detached, as if he weren't there at all. "Are ye all through spending your filth in me?"

He felt a cold sickness rising in his stomach. He stared at her for a moment more, then rolled off her onto his side of the bed. "I'm all through," he said tonelessly.

She got out of the bed and knelt beside the tiny crèche she had placed beneath the crucifix. He could sense her face turning toward him in the darkness. "I shall pray to the Virgin Mother that your seed has found no home in me," she whispered harshly.

He closed his eyes and turned his back. This was what they'd done to her, spoiled everything between them. A bitterness began to gall him.

He never set foot in a church again.


FIVE 


IT WAS QUIET HERE IN THE NAVE OF THE CHURCH. Ellen Denton, on her knees before the holy statuary, her head bowed and her beads threaded through her clasped fingers, was at peace. There was no prayer on her lips, no disturbing thoughts in her mind—only a calm, delicious emptiness. It permeated her whole being and closed off the world, beyond the comforting walls.

The sins of omission, which plagued her hours while she was outside these walls, were but faint distant echoes. Little Tommy lay quiet in his grave, no reproach on his tiny rosebud lips, for her neglect during his illness. No memories rose to torture her of her white, naked body, writhing in passion and pleasure, while her son lay dying in the same room.

It had seemed just a tiny cold, a cold such as children have so often and awaken free from in the morning. How was she to know that while she lay there, whispering her delight into her husband's ear, a minute piece of phlegm had lodged in her son's throat, shutting off the air from his lungs? So that, when she got up to adjust his covers, as she usually did before she closed her eyes for the night, she found him strangely cold and already blue. How was she to know that this was to be her punishment for her own sins?

Father Hadley had tried to comfort her in her grief. "Do not blame yourself, my child. The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away. His will be done."

But she'd known better. The memory of her joy in her sin was still too strong within her, though she sought to free her soul of its burden by a thousand visits to the confessional. But all the soothing words of the priests brought no solace to her soul. Her guilt was her own and only she, herself, could expunge it. But here, in the quiet peace of the nave, beneath the silent, sorrowing Virgin, there was calmness and emptiness and oblivion.

******

Johnny Burke was bored. He took a last drag on the butt and spun it out into the gutter. The pimply-faced boy next to him said, "Let's go over and see if Tessie is busy."

"Tessie is always busy. Besides, I hear she give a feller a dose. I ain't takin' any chances." Johnny took out another cigarette and lit it, his eyes nervously looking up the street. "Just for once, I'd like to get me a dame that nobody else has banged."

"How yuh goin' do that, Johnny?"

"There are ways, Andy," Johnny said mysteriously. "There are ways."

Andy looked at him interestedly. "You talk like yuh know."

Johnny nodded. He tapped his pocket. "I got a little somethin' in here that'll make any girl put out."

"Yeah, Johnny?" Andy asked quickly. "What?"

Johnny lowered his voice carefully. "Mosca cantharides."

"What's that?"

"Spanish fly, yuh dope," Johnny said. "I stole some when Doc asked me to watch the store while he went upstairs."

"Gee," Andy said, impressed. "Will it work on any girl?"

Johnny nodded. "Sure. If yuh can slip it into her drink. Just a little an' she's as hot as a biscuit right out of the oven."

The druggist stuck his head out of the doorway. "Johnny, watch the store for me, will you? I want to run upstairs a minute."

"O.K., Doc."

They watched him turn into the entrance next door, then went into the drugstore. Johnny walked behind the counter and leaned carelessly against the cash register.

"How about a Coke, Johnny?"

"Uh-uh," Johnny said. "No handouts while I'm watchin' the store for Doc." Idly Johnny opened and closed some drawers under the counter. "Hey, Andy," he called. "Want to see where Doc keeps all the rubbers?"

"Sure," Andy said. He walked around behind the counter.

"May I have a Coke, please?"

The girl's voice came from the soda fountain. Both boys looked up guiltily. Quickly Johnny snapped the drawer shut. "Sure, Jennie."

"Where's Doc?"

"He went upstairs for a minute."

"She saw us," Andy whispered. "She knows what we were lookin' at."

Johnny looked at Jennie as he walked over to the soda fountain. Maybe she did. There was a peculiar smile on her face. He pressed the plunger on the Coke-sirup pump and watched the dark fluid squirt into the glass. "Yuh hear from the Champ yet, Jennie?"

She shook her head. "We were supposed to go to the movies tonight but he didn't get back from Berkeley. I hope nothing went wrong with his scholarship."

Johnny smiled. "What could go wrong with it?" he said. "He already took the state finals."

Andy came up behind him. "Will it work on her?" he whispered. Johnny knew what he meant. He looked up suddenly. All at once it seemed to him that he'd never really seen Jennie. She was one of the cherries and usually he paid no attention to them. She had left her Coke and was over looking at the magazines. He liked the way the thin summer dress clung to her. He never knew she had such big ones. No wonder Mike Halloran kept her on the leash. Suddenly, he put his hand in his pocket and took out the little piece of paper and emptied the pinch of powder into her glass.

Jennie took a magazine from the rack and went back to the fountain. Johnny looked down at her glass. Some traces of powder were still floating on top. He took it and put in another squirt of sirup, then held the glass under the soda spigot while he stirred vigorously. He put the drink down in front of her and looked up at the clock. "Kind of late for you to be out, isn't it?"

"It's Saturday night," Jennie answered. "It was so hot in the apartment, I thought I'd come down for some air." She put a nickel on the counter and took a straw from the glass container.

Johnny anxiously watched her sip the drink. "Is it all right?"

"A little sweet, maybe."

"I’ll put a little more soda in it," Johnny said quickly. "How's that?"

She sipped at it. "Fine now. Thanks."

He picked up the nickel, went back to the cash register and rang it up. "I saw what you did," Andy whispered.

"Shut up."

Jennie was turning the pages of the magazine slowly as she sipped her drink. Her glass was half empty when the druggist came back into the store. "Everything O.K., Johnny?"

"O.K., Doc."

"Thanks, Johnny. Want a Coke?"

"No, thanks, Doc. See you tomorrow."

"What did you go an' do that for?" Andy asked, when they came out onto the street. "Now we won't never know if it worked."

"We'll know," Johnny said, turning to look through the window.

Jennie had finished her drink and was climbing down from the stool. She put the magazine back on the rack and started for the door. Johnny moved over to intercept her.

"Going home, Jennie?"

She stopped and smiled at him. "I thought I'd go down to the park. Maybe there's a cool breeze coming in from the bay."

"Mind if we come along?" Johnny asked. "We're not doin' anything."

She wondered what made Johnny ask to walk with her all of a sudden. He'd never seemed interested in her before.

It was almost ten o'clock when Tom Denton came out of the saloon across from the car barn. He was drunk. Sad, weeping, unhappy drunk. He stared across the street at the car barn. Old Two-twelve was in there. His old car. But she wasn't his car any more. She'd never be his car any more. She was somebody else's car now.

The tears began to roll down his cheeks. He was a failure. No car, no job, not even a wife to come home to. Right now she was probably sitting in a corner of the church, praying.

Didn't she understand a man had to have more than a prayer when he got into bed? If he had a couple of dollars in his pocket, he knew where he'd go. The girls at Maggie's knew how to treat a man. He fished in his pocket for some coins. Carefully he counted them. Thirty-five cents. He thought about going back into the saloon. He had enough for one more drink. But then he'd have to ask Ellen for pocket money on Monday.

He felt the effects of the liquor beginning to wear off. Angrily he put the change back in his pocket. Drinking wasn't any fun when you had to worry about every nickel you spent. Almost sober now, he began to walk home slowly.

He was sitting at the kitchen table in the dark when Ellen came home half an hour later. He looked up wearily as she turned on the light. "I didn't expect ye home so early," she said. "What happened? Did they run out of whisky?"

He didn't answer.

She walked out of the kitchen into the narrow hallway. He heard her open Jennie's door, then close it. A moment later, she came back into the kitchen. "Where's Jennie?"

"I don't know. She's probably out with Mike."

"Mike is still in Berkeley. Jennie was here when I left for church. She said she was going to bed early."

"It's warm," he said. "She probably went out for a breath of air."

"I don't like her being out alone like that."

"Now, don't start on her, Ellen," he said. "She's a big girl now."

She took a kettle down from the shelf and filled it with water. She placed it on the stove and lit the gas under it. "Would ye like a cup of tea?"

He looked up in surprise. It had been a long time since Ellen asked him to share an evening cup of tea. He nodded gratefully.

She took the cups from the cupboard and placed them on the table. Then she sat down opposite him to wait for the water to boil. There was a worried expression on her face.

"Don't worry," he said, suddenly feeling sorry for her. "Jennie'll be home any minute now."

She looked up, and in a rare moment of insight, saw what she was doing to him and to herself. She felt the tears coming into her eyes and placed her hand over his. "I'm sorry, Tom. I don't know what's the matter with me. Half the time, I imagine things that never happen."

"I know, Ellen," he said gently. "I know."

It was then that the policeman came to the door and told them that Jennie had been found in the park, raped and beaten. And from the look on Ellen's face, Tom knew that they were lost forever.


SIX


THE THREE OF THEM CAME OUT OF THE CHURCH INTO THE BRIGHT SUNLIGHT. They felt almost immediately the curious watching eyes. Tom felt the sudden shrinking in his daughter and noticed the flush of shame creeping up into her face, still puffed from the beating of almost two weeks ago. Her eyes looked down at the steps as they began to walk down toward the sidewalk.

"Hold your head up, Jennie Bear," he whispered. "It's their sons should bear the shame, not you."

Jennie lifted her head and smiled at him gratefully. "And you, too, Ellen Denton," he added. "Stop lookin' down at the ground."

In a way, Ellen felt a sort of triumph. Her husband had finally returned to the church. She thought of how it had been early that morning. She'd been all dressed and ready to leave for church when she called Jennie. She opened the door of Jennie's room. Her daughter was sitting in a chair, staring out the window. "You're not dressed yet, Jennie," she said in a shocked voice. "It's time we were leaving for Mass."

"I'm not going, Mama," Jennie said tonelessly.

"But you've not been to church since ye came home from the hospital You've scarcely been out of the house."

"I've been out, Mama." She turned toward her mother and the dark circles under her eyes looked even darker in the light. "And everybody stared at me and whispered as I went by. I can't stand it. I won't go to church and be a freak for everybody to stare at."

"You're denying the Savior!" Ellen said heatedly. "How do ye expect forgiveness for your sins if ye don't attend church?"

"What sins does the child need forgiveness for?" Her husband's voice came from behind her.

She whirled around, her temper immediately rising. "It's enough we have one traitor to the church in this house," she said. "We don't need another." She turned to Jennie. "Get dressed. You're coming with me if I have to drag ye."

"I’m not going, Mama," Jennie said. "I can't."

Ellen took a threatening step toward her daughter. She raised her hand. Suddenly, she felt her wrist caught in a grip of steel and she turned to look up into the face of her husband. His usually soft blue eyes were cold and hard. "Leave the child be! Have you gone completely mad?"

She looked up at him for a moment and then the flashing anger dissolved within her, leaving her spent and weak. The tears started in her eyes. "Father Hadley asked me to bring her. He said he'd offer up a prayer for her comfort."

He felt the release of her anger and let go of her wrist. Her arm fell limply at her side. He turned to his daughter. "Is that the reason you won't go to church, Jennie Bear?" he asked gently. "Because they stare at you?"

She nodded silently.

"Would you go if I were to come with you?" he asked suddenly.

Jennie looked into his eyes and saw the love there. After a moment, she nodded. "Yes, Daddy."

"All right, then. Get dressed. I'll be shaved in a minute." He turned and left the room quickly. Ellen stared after him, almost too surprised to realize what had happened.

There had been a buzz of surprise as they walked down the aisle to their pew. Tom could see heads twisting as they gaped, and a shudder ran through him at all the cruelty that was inherent in all human beings. His hand tightened on his daughter's and he smiled as he knelt toward the altar and crossed himself before taking his seat.

But as bad as it had been when they came in, it was that much worse when they came out. The curious had had time to gather on the steps in the bright morning sunshine. It was like running a gantlet of idiots.

"It's over now," he said softly as they turned the corner.

They crossed the street, walking toward the drugstore on the next corner. A group of boys were lounging about the store window, dressed in their Sunday best. The boys fell silent as they approached, staring at them with their wise, street-corner eyes. Tom stared back angrily at them and their eyes fell before his. They walked by and turned the corner to their house.

From around the corner behind him, Tom could hear the sudden explosion of their whispered conversation. Then one boy snickered and another boy laughed and the merriment had a sick, dirty sound to it that tore at his heart. Abruptly he let go of Jennie's arm and walked back around the corner. They looked at him in surprise, the laughter frozen on their lips.

"What's the joke, boys?" he asked, his anger making his face white and cold. "Tell it to me so I may laugh with you."

They stared at him silently, shamefaced. They looked down at their feet, they shuffled awkwardly, glancing at each other with secret looks filled with a meaning that Tom remembered from his own youth. It was as if they'd been surprised looking at dirty pictures.

A shame for what he'd been at their age came over him and a sick weariness replaced the anger. "Get off this corner," he said softly. "And if ever I hear of any of you laughing or making any remarks about me or any member of my family, I’ll come down here and tear the lot of you apart with my bare hands!"

The tallest of the boys took a step toward him. His eyes were sly and insolent. He was slightly taller than Tom and he looked down at him with a faint, contemptuous smile. "It's a free country. We can stand here if we like."

The resentment in Tom suddenly exploded. He seized the boy by his jacket lapels and forced him to his knees. "Free, is it?" he shouted, his veins purple on his forehead. "Free for you to stand here and choose who you'll rape tonight?" He raised an open hand to slap the boy across the face.

The boy cringed, the insolence gone from his face. "What yuh pickin' on us for, Mr. Denton? We aren't the ones fucked Jennie."

The words seemed to freeze the blood in Tom's veins. He stood there, his hand still upraised, staring down at the boy. Fucked Jennie. They could say that about his own daughter and there was nothing he could do that could change the fact of it. Slowly he let his hand fall to his side, then with a violent gesture, he flung the boy away from him.

Tom glared at them, looking from one to another. They were only boys, he told himself. He couldn't hate all boys because of what two had done. The boy was right. They weren't the guilty ones.

A sense of failure came over him. If anyone was guilty, he was the guiltiest of all. If he'd been a man and kept his job, all this might never have happened. "Get off this corner," he said. "If any of you ever see me coming this way again, you'd better be on the other side of the street."

They looked at him and then at each other and it almost seemed now as if they were pitying him. Suddenly, as if a secret message had been passed mysteriously between them, they began to disperse in ones and twos.

A moment later, he was alone on the corner. He stood there for a moment to quiet the sudden trembling that came over him, then he, too, turned and walked around the corner to where his wife and daughter were waiting for him. "It's over now," he said for the second time that morning, as he took Jennie's arm and started for the house again. But this time, he knew, even as he said it, that it wasn't over—that it would never be over as long as he was alive to remember.

 ******

The cool September breeze held the first hint of autumn. Jennie looked out the cable-car window toward her stop. Her father was standing there under the street lamp, waiting for her as he did each night now. The car stopped and she stepped down.

"Hello, Daddy."

"Hi, Jennie Bear."

She fell into step beside him as they turned the corner toward home. "Any luck today?"

He shook his head. "I don't understand it. There just are no jobs."

"Maybe there'll be one tomorrow."

"I hope so," he said. "Maybe after the election, things will look up. Roosevelt says the government has to take the lead in providing work, that big business has fallen down on its responsibilities. He makes more sense for the working man than Hoover and the Republicans." He looked at her. "How did it go today?"

"All right," she said. But there still was an uncomfortable feeling in the office. Many of the company agents had taken to stopping at her desk on their way in and out of the office. Sometimes they just chatted, but some of them had tried to date her. Maybe if things had been different, she'd have gone out with them. But when she looked up from her desk into their eyes, she knew what they were thinking. She'd refuse politely and some of them would stammer or even blush, for they knew somehow that she knew.

"You don't have to meet me every night, Daddy," she said suddenly. "I'm not afraid to come home alone."

"I know you're not. I've known it from that first day I came to meet you. But I want to do it. It's the one time of the whole day that I feel I've really got something to do."

Jennie didn't answer and they walked along silently for a moment. "Do you want me to stop?"

"Not if you want to meet me, Daddy."

They were at the steps of the house now and she started up. Her father placed a hand on her arm. "Let's not go up just yet, Jennie Bear. Let's sit here and talk a minute."

She looked down at him. His face was serious. "What is it, Daddy?"

"I didn't tell your mother. I went to see Father Hadley today."

"Yes?"

"He won't come down to court to testify to your character. He told me it's against the rules of the church. And the same goes for the sisters at the school."

"Oh," she said. The sick feeling came up inside her again. The lawyer had been right. He'd come to see them a month ago, a little man with the eyes of a weasel.

He'd sat down in the kitchen and looked across the table at them. "Mr. Burke and Mr. Tanner asked me to see you," he said. "I think you know how much they regret this, er—" He had glanced at her quickly and then away. "—this incident and they would like to make amends if they can."

Her father's face had flushed angrily. "In the first place, Mr. O'Connor," he had said quickly. "That incident you are referring to was not an incident. Those two boys ra—"

The lawyer held up his hand interrupting. "We know what they did," he said. "But surely, Mr. Denton, what purpose would their trial serve except to call even greater attention to your daughter and remind her of what already must be a painful experience. And what if the boys should be adjudged not guilty?"

Her father laughed. "Not guilty? I was at the station when the police brought them in. I heard them sniveling and crying then how sorry they were that they did it."

"What they said then, Mr. Denton," the attorney had said, "is unimportant. It's what they say in court that counts. And they will say that your daughter led them on, that she asked them to go to the park with her."

"They will have to prove that," Tom said grimly.

"It will be harder for you to disprove it," the lawyer said. "There's two of them and only the word of your daughter. And they will have as many character witnesses for them as you will have to have for your daughter."

"It's beginning to sound as if my daughter were on trial, not them!" Tom burst out.

"Exactly," the lawyer nodded. "That is the way it is in these cases. The accuser stands to lose more than the accused."

"My daughter's reputation speaks for itself," Tom said. "Father Hadley of St. Paul's and the sisters at Mercy High School will tell you of my Jennie."

The lawyer had smiled mysteriously. "I doubt it, Mr. Denton," he said quietly. "I doubt it very much." He glanced at Jennie again, then back at Tom. "I am authorized by my clients to offer you a thousand dollars if your daughter will drop the charges against the boys."

"I think you might as well go, Mr. O'Connor," her father had said, getting to his feet. "You cannot buy what's already been stolen."

The attorney rose also. He took a card from his pocket and placed it on the table and walked to the door. "You can reach me at my office any time before the trial begins if you should change your mind."

"What do we do now, Daddy?" she asked, back in the present again.

"Father Hadley said they'd told your mother the same thing three weeks ago."

She stared at her father. "Then she knew all along and never told us?"

He nodded. A chill ran through her. There was something wrong with a God who would
let a mother expose her own child to shame and ridicule just to save her own conscience.

"Father Hadley also said the scholarship to St. Mary's is still open if you want it, Jennie."

Suddenly, she began to laugh. They refused to give her a good name, yet were willing to
give her charity. She couldn't reconcile the two attitudes. Was one merely to compensate
for the other?

Tom looked up at her in surprise. "What are you laughing at, Jennie?"

Her laughter died and she looked at him, unsmiling. "Nothing, Daddy," she said. "I think
you might as well give that lawyer a call."

"Then you'll take the thousand dollars?"

She nodded. "And the scholarship to St. Mary's, too. That way, you'll be able to live while I'm away."

"I won't accept your money."

"Yes, you will, Daddy," she said softly. "At least, until you find a job and get back on your feet again."

He felt the tears rush into his eyes and suddenly he pulled her to him. "Do you love me, Jennie Bear? Do you love your poor miserable failure of a father?"

"You know I do, Daddy," she said quickly, her head against his chest. And they clung to each other, crying, there on the steps in the quiet, cool autumn twilight.


SEVEN 


THE ONLY SOUND FOR A MOMENT WAS THE SLIGHT HISSING THAT CAME FROM THE FLUORESCENT LAMPS OVER THE SURGICAL AREA. Dr. Grant's hands were quick and sure as he deftly lifted the perfectly normal appendix from the heavy-set, wealthy woman lying on the operating table. His deep, masculine voice rumbled in the silence. "That will do it," he said, sighing in satisfaction. "You can close her up now, Dr. Lobb."

He turned away from the table and one of the nurses quickly wiped the perspiration from his face as the surgical resident began to clamp the edges of the incision together.

Jennie glanced up at Sister M. Christopher. If the senior nurse was aware that the appendix had not been infected, her dark eyes, visible over the face mask, gave no indication.

"Suture," Dr. Lobb grunted, holding out his hand. Automatically Jennie gave it to him. Then she didn't have time to look up for a few minutes. She was too busy. But she was aware that Sister Christopher was watching her. It didn't make her nervous, as it had at first. But that was almost three years ago. Next month was graduation.

Sister Christopher watched Jennie with approbation. This girl was one of the bright spots in her class. Perhaps one girl in a hundred had a vocation for surgery the way Jennie had. There were so many things needed and Jennie had them all. The sight of blood didn't upset her, not even the first time she'd experienced it. And Jennie was deft and sure in her actions. Quickly she'd developed an affinity between herself and the instruments, then between herself and the surgeons. Without the affinity, which permitted an unspoken form of communication between the doctor and the nurse, surgery could be dangerously delayed while instruments were fumbled back and forth.

The final important factor was strength. No one ever quite realized how important it was for a surgical nurse to be strong. To be able to stand for hours beside the quiet white table, even though your feet hurt and your thighs and back ached from that peculiar, slightly-leaning-forward position. To be able to feed the doctor that strength and reassure him with it, so that the chain of healing formed one unbroken line. And the strength to be stoic when the chain was broken and the now forever silent patient was wheeled away; to stand there quietly and begin to scrub up again, sure that the chain would rebuild itself when a new patient was wheeled in.

Dr. Lobb looked up and nodded. "Dressing." He held his white-gloved hand out over the neatly stitched incision.

Jennie was ready with the gauze packing as he lifted his hand. Immediately, she covered the incision, while with her other hand, she lifted the strips of adhesive tape from the clip board at the side of the table. She pressed the tape down firmly with her fingers, checking the bandage for smoothness and support, then lifted both hands to signify she had finished.

Sister Christopher nodded and the patient was quickly wrapped and transferred to another table by the assistants. There was a click as the fluorescents went out. The morning operating-room schedule at St. Mary's had been completed.

"That's the fourth good appendix he's taken out this month," Jennie whispered above the gush of water into the basin. "Why does he do it?"

The young resident laughed. "At two hundred and fifty dollars a crack, you don't fight the patients."

"But he doesn't have to," she whispered. "He's a great surgeon. He has scarcely enough time for all he has to do."

"Sure," Dr. Lobb whispered back. "But even great surgeons have to eat. Most of the trick cases are either for free or tough collections. So who's to blame if once in a while, he lifts a harmless appendix from some rich old hypochondriac? There's no risk in it. The doctor can pay his bills and the patient can brag about his operation."

He straightened up, reaching for a towel. "Oh-oh," he said warningly. "Here comes the great man himself."

Jennie took a towel from the rack and began to dry her hands. The doctor's voice came from behind her. "Miss Denton?"

She turned around, looking at him. "Yes, Dr. Grant?"

"I understand you're graduating next month."

"I hope so."

"I don't think you have anything to worry about," he said. "I was just talking to Sister Christopher. She thinks a great deal of you. And so do I."

"Thank you."

"Have you made any plans yet for after graduation?"

"Not really," Jennie answered. "I'm going to take the state exam and get my name on the lists for one of the big hospitals."

"All hospitals are pretty well staffed."

Jennie knew what he really meant. They weren't well staffed, at all. Actually, they were all understaffed because there was no money to pay for the staff they needed. Especially those in the operating room. They were the best paid of all. "I know," she said.

He hesitated a moment. "Are you doing anything right now?"

"I was just going down to the cafeteria for lunch."

"I'd like to talk to you. Sister Christopher said it would be all right if you left the hospital for lunch. How about the Steak 'n' Sauce?"

"That sounds fine," Jennie said.

"Good." He smiled. "I’ll meet you down at my car. It's the black Packard."

"I know," she said quickly. All the nurses knew the car. It was always parked just opposite their dormitory. Outside of Dr. Gedeon's black Cadillac, it was the most expensive car at the hospital.

"See you in fifteen minutes, then."

Jennie walked out into the corridor and pressed the button for the elevator. The door opened and she stepped in. Dr. Lobb rushed in right after her.

"The Steak 'n' Sauce!"

"I wonder what he wants?" Jennie asked.

His grin grew broader. "I know what he wants," he said lewdly. "But I didn't have any luck getting it at the Greasy Spoon."

She returned his grin. "His luck won't be any better at the Steak 'n' Sauce."

"I don't know." He laughed. "One of these days, you're goin' to give it up to somebody. There's no sense feeding it to the worms."

"That will never happen," she said. Too late for that, she thought. But it didn't matter now. It was forgotten and no one here had heard about it. "I still wonder what he wants?"

"Maybe he wants you to work for him. Ever think of that?"

"I thought about it," she admitted. "But it doesn't make sense. Why me? He can have his pick of the best around."

Dr. Lobb grinned but his eyes were serious. "You are the best around, honey. It's about time you realized that."

The elevator door opened and they stepped out into the basement corridor, where the employees' cafeteria was. Jennie looked down at her white uniform. "I'd better get out of this and into a dress."

"I'd be just as happy if you just got out of that." He laughed. "You don't have to put on a dress for me."

She looked up at him, smiling. Someday, this young man was going to be one of the really good ones. "Maybe I’ll surprise you sometime."

"Surprise me by bringing back a steak sandwich," he called after her. "I've about given up on the other."

 ******

Doctor Grant held a package of cigarettes out toward her. She took one and he held a match. His eyes met hers over the flickering flame. "I suppose you're wondering why I asked you to lunch?"

She nodded. "I was curious, to say the least."

He smiled. "I'm sorry if I provoked your curiosity. But I really meant it when I said I like to forget about my practice during lunch. But I guess now it's time to get down to business."

She didn't answer.

"During the past year, Miss Denton, I’ve had an excellent opportunity to observe your work in surgery. From the very first, I was aware of your aptitude and I have always appreciated, as a surgeon, the extremely competent manner in which you render assistance."

"Thank you, Dr. Grant."

"As you may know, Miss Denton, I have a rather extensive and busy practice. There are many physicians who refer their patients to me for surgery. Much of this practice is of a minor nature and under proper conditions, can be attended to in my office. It relieves the patient of a considerable part of the economic burden.

Jennie nodded silently.

"This morning, I learned from Miss Janney, who's been associated with me for many years, that she's getting married and plans to move to Southern California." He drew on his cigarette. "When I came to the hospital today, I took the liberty of speaking to Sister Christopher about you. She agrees that you'd make an excellent replacement for Miss Janney."

"You mean you want me to work for you?"

He smiled. "In my roundabout manner, that is what I was about to ask. Are you interested?"

"Of course. What girl wouldn't be?"

"It's not an easy job, you know," he said. "I have a few beds in my clinic and very often, we'll have to work late. Occasionally, I even keep a patient overnight. At such times, you'd have to remain on duty."

"Dr. Grant," Jennie said, smiling, "I've put in two eight-hour shifts a day with only four hours' sleep between, for the last week. Working for you will seem like a picnic."

He smiled and reaching across the table, patted her hand reassuringly. Jennie smiled back at him. He wasn't so bad, after all, even if he did take out a few perfectly healthy appendixes. He was only the surgeon. He couldn't be responsible for the faulty diagnosis of every physician who sent him a patient.

But that was before she went to work for him and found out that healthy appendixes weren't the only things he removed. He also had a very busy practice in unborn babies up to ten weeks after conception. As a matter of fact, he was probably the busiest abortionist in California.

But by the time she was aware of that, it didn't matter, because she was in love with him. Nor did it matter that he was already married and had three children.


EIGHT 


THE TELEPHONE RANG JUST AS SHE WAS ABOUT TO LEAVE THE TINY TWO-ROOM APARTMENT OVER THE CLINIC. She went back and picked it up. "Dr. Grant's office," she said. It was an extension of the telephone in the office downstairs.

"Jennie?" came the whisper.

"Yes."

"Will you be there for a while?"

"I was just leaving to see my folks. I haven't seen them for three weeks. This is the third Sunday in a row—"

His voice interrupted her. "I’ll see to it you have time off during the week. Please, Jennie, I've got to see you."

She hesitated a moment and he sensed her faltering over the telephone. "Please, Jennie! I’ll go crazy if I don't see you."

She looked across at the clock. It was already after seven o'clock. By the time she got across town, it would almost be time for her father to go to bed. He had a WPA job and had to be at work very early.

"Oh, all right," she said quietly.

Some of the tension left his voice. "Good, Jennie. I'll be there in twenty minutes. I love you."

"I love you," she said and heard the click as he put down the phone. She replaced the receiver and slowly took off her coat. Carefully she put it back in the closet, walked over to the couch and sat down. She lit a cigarette thoughtfully.

Who would have thought when she came to work here, three months ago, that he'd fall in love with her? And she with him. But then, how could she help herself? Especially when she knew what it was like for him at home. Married to a spoiled rich young woman who constantly threw up to him that it was her money that had enabled him to open his office, that it was her father's influence that had established him in the community. Married to a woman who bore him three children not out of love for him but out of an insane desire to keep him forever bound to her.

No wonder he'd found refuge in his work and spent almost every waking moment at his practice. Now she understood what drove him. And those girls and young women who came for his surgery? And he'd explained why he did it, she understood that, too.

She saw the inner kindness in his sensitive face as he spoke. "What am I to do, Jennie?" he'd asked. "Turn them away and let them ruin their lives because of one foolish mistake? Or let them fall into the hands of some quack who'll make them sick forever or perhaps even kill them, all because of some outworn religious code? Religious laws like that have hung on until gradually they've become dogma, just like the Jewish nonsense about kosher meat. Even our civil laws permit abortion under certain circumstances. Someday, it will be open and aboveboard, as it is in many countries throughout the world—Cuba, Denmark, Sweden, many others."

He'd turned his deep-set brown eyes toward her. "I took an oath when I became a doctor, that I would strive to do my best for my patients, to help them in every way I could, physically and psychologically. That oath is more important than anything else to me. When some poor, frightened child comes to me for help, I can't play God and refuse her."

It made sense to her. There were many things about the church she did not understand. She knew how they'd acted in her own case and the bitterness still rankled deep within her. If her goodness had been so important, why wouldn't they come forward to support her good name? All they really sought was power over her, not responsibility for her.

So, gradually she'd come to recognize the women who came to him for help and feel a compassion for them. The young matron who couldn't afford to leave her job because already she and her husband had more children than they could support; the frightened young girls, some still in school or just out; the middle-aged women just approaching the change of life, with their families already grown; even the call girls, who lived casually from day to day, yet came into the office with a haunting fear buried deep beneath their bright, brittle laughter. She had the capacity to feel sorry for them, even as he had. And from there, it was only one step to falling in love with him.

It happened after she'd been there about a month. She was upstairs in the apartment and heard a noise in the office below. It was about eight o'clock at night. At first, she was confused, thinking that this was an office night. But then she realized it was Tuesday, and the doctor had office hours only on Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings. She turned down the flame under the coffeepot and reaching for her robe, went down to investigate.

When she opened the door to his private office and looked in, he was seated behind his desk, his face gray and tired-looking. "I beg your pardon, Doctor. I didn't know it was you. I heard a noise—"

He smiled wearily. "That's all right, Miss Denton."

"Good night, Doctor," she said, starting to close the door.

"Just a minute, Miss Denton," he said suddenly.

She opened the door and looked at him. "Yes, Doctor?"

He smiled again. "We've been so busy, I haven't had time to ask. Are you happy here?"

She nodded. "Yes, Doctor. Very."

"I'm glad."

"You ought to be getting home, Doctor. You look exhausted."

"Home?" he asked, a wry smile coming to his lips. "This is my home, Miss Denton. I just sleep in that other place."

"I—I don't understand, Doctor."

"Of course you don't," he said gently. "I wouldn't expect you to. You're much too young and beautiful to worry about the likes of me." He got to his feet. "Go back upstairs now, Miss Denton. I’ll try to be very quiet and not disturb you."

The light from the lamp on his desk shining up onto his face made him look even more handsome than usual. She stood in the doorway, staring at him. She felt her heart pumping strangely within her. "But I do worry about you, Doctor. You work too hard."

"I’ll be all right," he said in a toneless voice. He turned to look at her and their eyes locked and held. It seemed as if she were spinning into a swirling vortex deep in his gentle brown eyes. She felt a trembling in her legs and placed her hand on the doorjamb quickly, to support herself. No words came to her lips; she stared at him, speechless.

"Is anything wrong, Miss Denton?"

It took a desperate effort for her to shake her head. "No," she whispered, forcing her eyes to turn away. "No." Suddenly, she turned and ran toward the stairway.

She wasn't even aware that he had come after her until he caught her in the doorway of her apartment. The warmth of his hand touching her shoulder came through the thin robe. "Are you afraid of me, Jennie?" he asked harshly.

She looked up into his face and saw the anguish in his eyes. A curious weakness came over her and she would have fallen if he had not been holding her. "No," she whispered.

"Then what is it?"

She looked down, not speaking, the warmth from his hand beginning to radiate into a fire inside her. "Tell me!" he urged, shaking her.

She looked up at him, the tears coming into her eyes. "I can't."

"You can, Jennie, you can," he said insistently. "I know what you feel. You feel the same things I feel. I can't sleep without dreaming of you, without feeling you close to me."

"No. Please! It's not right."

His strong surgeon's hand held her chin. "I love you, Jennie," he said. "I love you."

She stared up into his eyes, seeing his face coming closer and closer, then his mouth pressed down on hers. She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the fire envelop her. Abruptly she tore her face away. She backed into the apartment. He stepped in after her, kicking the door shut with his foot. "You love me," he said. "Say it!"

Her eyes were wide as she stared up at him. "No," she whispered.

He stepped forward again, his strong fingers digging deep into her shoulders. "Say it!" he commanded harshly.

She felt the weakness as his touch flowed through her again. She couldn't turn her face from his eyes. "I love you," she said.

He pressed his mouth to hers again and kissed her. She felt his hands inside her robe, his fingers on her back unfastening her brassière, her breasts rising from their restraint, the nipples leaping joyfully into his hands. A shiver of ecstasy raced through her and she almost fell. "Please don't," she whispered, her lips moving under his. "It's wrong."

He picked her up in his arms and carried her across the room to the bed. He placed her on it gently and knelt beside her. "When a man and a woman are in love," he whispered, "nothing they do in the privacy of their own home is ever wrong. And this is our home."

He pressed his lips down on her mouth again.

 ******

Tom looked across the table at the kitchen clock. It was a few minutes past ten. He folded his newspaper. "I guess she won't be coming now," he said, "so I might as well be turning in." He got to his feet. "The boys down at the Alliance tell me I’ll be making supervisor any day now, so I better get my sleep. It won't do for me to be showing up late to work."

Ellen sniffed contemptuously. "If ye keep listenin' to them communists down at the Workers' Alliance, you'll be lucky even to hold your job with the WPA."

"They're in pretty good, you can't deny that. It was them that got me onto full time instead of half time and you know it. It's them that's for the working man."

"Communists are heathens," she said. "Father Hadley told me they're against the church because they don't believe in God. He says they're only playing up to the workin' man until they get in power, like in Russia. Then they'll close the churches and make slaves out of us all."

"What if they are?" he asked. "I don't see Father Hadley getting me a job or paying our bills. No, it was the Alliance that put me to work and saw to it I earned enough to pay rent and buy food. I don't care what Father Hadley calls them, as long as they do good for me."

She smiled bitterly. "A fine family I have. A husband who's a communist and a daughter who never has the time to come home."

"Maybe she's busy," Tom said lamely. "You know it's a responsible position she's got. Didn't the sister at St. Mary's say, when she graduated, that she was very lucky to be working for such an important doctor?"

"Yes, but she still should come home once in a while. I'm willin' to bet she hasn't been to Mass since she left St. Mary's."

"How do you know?" Tom asked angrily. "St. Paul's ain't the only church in San Francisco."

"I know," she said. "I feel it. She doesn't want to come see us. She's makin' so much money now, she's ashamed of us."

"And what has she got to be proud of? With you preaching religion at her all the time and the boys on the street still sniggering and laughing behind her back when she walks by? Do you think that's something to make a young girl want to come home?"

Ellen ignored him. "It's not right that a girl should stay away like this," she said stubbornly. "We both know what goes on up there on the hill, with everybody sleepin' with each other's wives and the drink. I read the papers, too, ye know."

"Jennie's a good girl. She wouldn't do a thing like that."

"I'm not too sure. Sometimes a taste of temptation is like a spoonful of honey. Just enough to sweeten your tongue but not enough to fill your whole mouth. And we both know she's tasted temptation."

"You still don't believe her, do you?" he asked bitterly. "You'd rather take the word of those two hoodlums than your own daughter."

"Then why didn't she go into court? If there wasn't just a little truth in what they said, she wouldn't have been afraid. But no, she takes the thousand dollars and lets herself be labeled a whore."

"You know as well as I why she didn't," Tom answered. "And you can thank your church for it. They'd not even come into court to say she was a good girl. No, they were afraid the boys' parents might not like it and cut off their weekly contributions."

"The church sent her to college. And they found her this job. They did their duty."

"Then what are you complaining about?"

She sat there quietly for a moment, listening to him drop his shoes angrily to the floor as he undressed in the bedroom. Then she got out of the chair and felt the hot-water heater. A hot bath would soothe her aches and pains a little; all this damp fall weather was bringing out her arthritis. She took a match and kneeled down beside the heater. Striking the match, she turned the pet cock. The flame caught for a moment, then died out in a tiny yellow circle. She looked up at the meter. They were out of gas. The red flag was up. She got to her feet and walked over to her pocketbook. She opened the small change purse and searched through it. She had no quarters, only nickels and dimes. For a moment, she thought of asking Tom for a quarter, then shrugged her shoulders. She'd had enough of his blasphemous tongue. She'd do without her bath. She could take it in the morning, when she came back from Mass. She went into the bathroom and used the last of the hot water to wash her face. Tom was standing in the kitchen when she came out, his chest bare above his trousers. She swept by him silently and closed the bedroom door behind her.

Tom went into the bathroom and washed up noisily. Suddenly, the water went cold. He swore and dried himself quickly, then fished in his pocket for a quarter. He reached up and put the quarter into the meter, then watched the red on the dial disappear. He nodded, satisfied.

In the morning, he'd turn on the heater and in a few minutes, he'd have enough hot water for his shave. He went into the bedroom, leaving the door open behind him, unaware of the slight hiss coming from under the heater.

He draped his pants on the chair and sat down on the bed. After a moment, he stretched out with a sigh. His shoulder touched Ellen and he felt her turn away.

Ah, the hell with her, he thought, turning on his side, his back to her. Maybe the commies were right with their ideas of free love. At least a man wouldn't have to put up with a woman like her.

His eyes began to feel heavy. He could hear the soft, even sounds of her breath. She was asleep already. He smiled to himself in the dark. With free love, he'd have his pick of women. She'd act different then, all right. His eyelids drooped and closed and he joined his wife in slumber. And death.

******

Jennie sat up in the bed, clutching the sheet to her naked body and staring with wide, frightened eyes at the woman who stood in the doorway. On the other side of the bed, Bob was already hurriedly buttoning his shirt.

"Did you think he'd leave me for you?" she screamed at Jennie. "Did you think you were the first? Hasn't he told you how many times I've caught him like this?" Her voice grew contemptuous. "Or do you think he's really in love with you?"

Jennie didn't answer.

"Tell her, Robert," his wife said angrily. "Tell her you wanted to make love to me tonight and when I refused, you came running over here. Tell her."

Jennie stared at him. His face was white and he didn't look in her direction. He grabbed his coat from the chair and walked over to his wife. "You're all upset. Let me take you home."

Home. Jennie felt a sick feeling in her stomach. This was home—his and hers. He had said so. It was here they had loved, here they had been together. But he was talking about someplace else. Another place.

"I'm always upset, aren't I, Robert? Every time you promise it will never happen again. But I know better, don't I? All right," she said suddenly, her voice hard and cold. "We'll go. But not until you tell her."

"Please, dear," he said quickly. "Another time. Not now."

"Now, Robert," she said coldly. "Now—or the whole world will know about Dr. Grant, the quack, the abortionist, the great lover."

He turned and looked back at Jennie on the bed. "You'll have to leave, Miss Denton," he said huskily. "You see, I don't love you," he said in a strained voice. "I love my wife."

And almost at the same moment that the door closed behind him, there was an explosion in an old tenement on the other side of the city. After the firemen pulled the charred bodies from the fire, they gave their verdict. The victims had been fortunate. They were already dead before the fire started.


NINE 


CHARLES STANDHURST WAS EIGHTY-ONE YEARS OLD WHEN HE MET JENNIE DENTON. It was eight o'clock of a spring morning in 1936 and he was in the operating room of the Colton Sanitarium at Santa Monica. He was the patient just being placed on the operating table and she was acting as Chief Nurse in Surgery.

He felt them place his legs over the stirrups and quickly arrange a sheet so that even if he moved his head, he could not see his lower half. When they had finished, he saw her come from somewhere behind him and walk down to the foot of the table. She lifted up the sheet.

He felt a moment's embarrassment at the impersonal manner in which she scrutinized his private parts. After five wives, countless mistresses and more than forty children that he was sure about, only eight of whom were the result of his marriages, it seemed strange to him that anyone could look at him in such a detached manner. So much life had sprung from that fountain.

She let the covering fall around him again and looked up. A glint of humor flickered in her intelligent gray eyes and he knew that she understood.

She came around to the side of the table and reached for his pulse. He looked up at her as she studied her watch. "Where's Dr. Colton?"

"He'll be along in a minute. He's washing up."

She let go of his wrist and said something to someone behind him. He rolled his eyes back and caught a glimpse of another nurse. Feeling the prick of a needle in his arm, he turned his head back quickly. Already, she was taking the small hypodermic out of his arm. "Hey, you're fast," he said.

"That's my job."

"I am, too."

Again that smile in her gray eyes. "I know. I read the papers."

Just then, Dr. Colton came in. "Hello, Mr. Standhurst," he said in his jovial manner. "Did we pass any water today?"

"Maybe you did, Doc, but you know damn well I didn't," Standhurst said dryly. "Or they'd never have got me back in this slaughterhouse."

Dr. Colton laughed. "Well, you've got nothing to worry about. We'll have those kidney stones out in a jiffy."

"All the same, Doc, I'm glad we've got a specialist doing it. If I left it up to you, God knows what you'd cut out."

His sarcasm didn't disturb Dr. Colton. They'd known each other for too long. It was Charles Standhurst who'd advanced him most of the money to start this hospital. He laughed again.

The surgeon came in and stood beside Dr. Colton. "Ready, Mr. Standhurst?"

"Ready as I’ll ever be. Just leave something for the girls, eh, Doc?"

The surgeon nodded and Standhurst felt a prick in his other arm. He turned his head and saw Jennie standing there. "Gray eyes," he said to her. His second wife had had gray eyes. Or was it his third? He didn't remember. "I suppose you wouldn't take your mask off so that I could see the rest of your face?"

Again he saw the glint of humor. "I don't think the doctors would approve," she said. "But after the operation, I’ll come visit you. Will that do?"

"Fine. I've got a feeling you're beautiful."

He didn't see the anesthetist behind him nod. Jennie leaned over his face. "Now, Mr. Standhurst," she said, "count down from ten with me. Ten, nine, eight—"

"Seven, six, four, five, two, nine." His lips were moving slowly and everything seemed so comfortable and far away. "Ten, eight, one, three ... six ... four ... one ... two ..." His voice faded away.

The anesthetist looked up at the surgeon. "He's under," he said.

They all saw it at the same time, looking down into the cavity the surgeon had cut into his body—the mass of brackish gray covering almost the entire side of one kidney and threading its way in thin, radiating lines across the other. Without raising his head, the surgeon dropped the two pieces of matter he'd snipped away onto the slides that Jennie held under his hand. She gave the slides to a nurse standing behind her without turning around. "Pathology," she whispered.

The nurse left quickly and Jennie, with the same deft motion, picked up two hemostats. The assisting surgeon took them from her hand and tied off two veins as the surgeon's knife exposed them.

"Aren't you going to wait for the biopsy?" Dr. Colton asked from his position next to the surgeon. The surgeon didn't look up. His fingers were busy probing at the mass. "Not unless you want me to, Doctor." He held out his hand and Jennie placed a fine curette in it. He was working quickly now, preparing to remove the infected kidney.

Colton hesitated. "Charles Standhurst isn't just an ordinary man." Everyone around the operating table knew that. At one time or another, the old man quietly lying there, could have been almost anything he'd wanted. Governor, senator, anything. With more than twenty major newspapers stretched across the nation and a fortune founded from oil and gold, he'd never really wanted anything more than to be himself. He was second only to Hearst in the state's pride for its home-grown tycoons.

The surgeon, a comparatively young man who'd rapidly become one of the foremost GU men in the world and had been flown out from New York especially for this job, began to lift out the kidney. The nurse behind Jennie tapped her on the shoulder. Jennie took the slip of paper from her and held it out for him to see. She could see the typed words plainly.

Carcinoma. Metastasis. Malignant.

The surgeon sighed softly, and glanced up at Dr. Colton. "Well, he's an ordinary enough man now."

******

Mr. Standhurst was awake the next morning when the surgeon came into his hospital room. If he paid any attention to the teletype clicking away in the corner, it wasn't apparent. He walked over to the side of the bed and looked down. "I came in to say good-by, Mr. Standhurst. I'm leaving for New York this morning."

The old man looked up and grinned. "Hey, Doc," he said. "Anybody ever tell you that your old man was a tailor?"

"My father was a tailor, Mr. Standhurst."

"I know," Standhurst said quickly. "He still has the store on Stanton Street. I know many things about you. You were president of the Save Sacco-Vanzetti Society at City College when you graduated in twenty-seven, a registered member of the Young Socialists during your first year at P. and S., and the first surgeon ever to become an F.A.C.S. in his first year of practice. You're still a registered Socialist in New York and you'll probably vote for Norman Thomas for President."

The surgeon smiled. "You know a great deal about me."

"Of course I do. You don't think I'd let just anybody cut me up, do you?"

"I should think you'd have worried just a little knowing what you do about me," the doctor said. "You know what we Socialists think of you."

The old man started to laugh, then grimaced in pain. "Hell! The way I figure it, you're a doctor first and a Socialist second." He looked up shrewdly. "You know, Doc, if you voted the straight Republican ticket, I could make you a millionaire in less than three years."

The doctor laughed and shook his head. "No, thanks. I’d worry too much."

"How come you don't ask me how I feel, Doc? Colton's been in here four times already and each time he asked me."

The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "Why should I? I know how you feel. You hurt."

"I hurt like hell, Doc," Standhurst said. "Colton said those stones you took out of me were big as baseballs."

"They were pretty big, all right."

"He also said I’d be wearing this bag you hooked into me until the kidney healed and took over again."

"You'll be wearing it quite a while."

The old man stared at him. "You know, you're both full of shit," he said calmly. "I’ll wear this in my grave. And that isn't too far off, either."

"I wouldn't say that."

"I know you wouldn't," Standhurst said. "That's why I'm saying it. Look, Doc, I'm eighty-one years old. And at eighty-one, if a man lives that long, he gets to be a good smeller of death—for anyone, including himself. You learn to see it in the face or eyes. So don't bullshit me. How long have I got?"

The doctor looked into the old man's eyes and saw that he wasn't afraid. If anything, there was a look of lively curiosity reflected there. He made up his mind quickly. Colton was all wrong in the way he was handling it. This was a man. He deserved the truth. "Three months, if you're lucky, Mr. Standhurst. Six, if you're not."

The old man didn't blink an eyelash. "Cancer?"

The surgeon nodded. "Malignant and metastatic," he answered. "I removed one complete kidney and almost half of the other. That's why you have that waste bag."

"Will it be painful?"

"Very. But we can control it with morphine."

"To hell with that," the old man said. "Dying is about the only thing in life I haven't experienced. It's something I don't want to miss."

The teletype began to clatter suddenly and the old man glanced over at it, then back at the doctor. "How will I know when it's close, Doc?"

"Watch the urine in that bag," the doctor said. "The redder it gets, the nearer it is. That means the kidney is passing clear blood instead of urine, because the cancer will have choked off the kidney completely."

The look in the old man's eyes was bright and intelligent. "That means I’ll probably die of uremic poisoning."

"Possibly. If nothing else goes wrong."

Standhurst laughed. "Hell, Doc," he said, "I could have done that twenty years ago if I'd just kept on drinking."

The surgeon laughed. "But look at all the fun you'd have missed."

The old man smiled up at him. "You Socialists will probably declare a national holiday."

"I don't know, Mr. Standhurst." The doctor returned his smile. "Who would we have to complain about then?"

"I'm not worried," the old man said. "Hearst and Patterson will still be around."

The doctor held out his hand. "Well, I've got to be going, Mr. Standhurst."

Standhurst took his hand. "Good-by, Doc. And thanks."

The surgeon's dark eyes were serious. "Good-by, Mr. Standhurst," he said. "I'm sorry." He started for the door. The old man's voice turned him around.

"Will you do me a favor, Doc?"

"Anything I can, Mr. Standhurst."

"That nurse up in the operating room," Standhurst said. "The one with the gray eyes and the tits."

The surgeon knew whom he meant. "Miss Denton?"

"If that's her name," the old man said.

The surgeon nodded.

"She said if I wanted to see her without her mask, she'd come down. Would you leave word with Colton on your way out that I'd like her to join me for lunch?"

The surgeon laughed. "Will do, Mr. Standhurst"


TEN 


JENNIE PICKED UP THE BOTTLE OF CHAMPAGNE AND POURED IT INTO THE TALL GLASS FILLED WITH ICE CUBES. The wine bubbled up with a fine frothy head, then settled back slowly as she filled it to the brim. She put the glass straw into the glass and handed it to Standhurst. "Here's your ginger ale, Charlie."

He grinned at her mischievously. "If you're looking for something to bring up the gas," he said, "champagne beats ginger ale any time." He sipped at it appreciatively. "Ah," he said and burped. "Have some, maybe it will make you feel sexy."

"What good would it do you if I did?" Jennie retorted.

"I'd feel good just remembering what I'd have done if it were twenty years ago."

"Better make it forty, to be safe."

"No." He shook his head. "Twenty was the best. Maybe it's because I appreciated it more then, knowing it wasn't going to last very long."

The teletype in the corner of the library began to chatter. Jennie got up out of the chair and walked over to it. When it stopped, she tore the message off and came back to him. "They just nominated Roosevelt for a second term." She handed him the yellow sheet.

"I expected that," he said. "Now they'll never get the son of a bitch out of there. But why should I worry? I won't be around."

The telephone began to ring almost as he finished speaking. It was the direct wire from his Los Angeles paper. She picked it up off the desk and brought it over to him. "Standhurst," he said into it.

She could hear a faint buzz on the other end of the wire. His face was expressionless as he listened. "Hell, no! There's time enough to editorialize after he's made his acceptance speech. At least, then we'll have an idea of what promises he's going to break. No editorials until tomorrow. That goes for all the papers. Put it on the teletype."

He put down the telephone and looked at her. Immediately, the teletype began to clatter again. She walked over and looked down at it. Green letters began to appear on the yellow paper.

FROM CHARLES STANDHURST TO ALL PAPERS: IMPORTANT. ABSOLUTELY NO EDITORIALS RE NOMINATION ROOSEVELT UNTIL ACCEPTANCE SPEECH IS MADE AND EVALUATED. REPEAT. ABSOLUTELY NO EDITORIALS RE NOMINATION ROOSE—

She walked away from the teletype while it was still chattering. "That's your orders, boss."

"Good. Now turn the damn thing off so we can talk."

She went over and flipped the switch, then came back and sat down opposite him. She took a cigarette and lit it as he sipped the champagne through the straw reflectively. "What are your plans when this job is over?"

"I haven't thought much about it."

"You better start," he said. "It won't be long now."

She smiled at him. "Anxious to get rid of me?"

"Don't be silly," he said. "The only reason I've stayed alive this long is because I didn't want to leave you."

Something in his voice made her look searchingly at him. "You know, Charlie, I believe you really mean that."

"Of course I do," he snapped.

Suddenly touched, she came over to the side of his chair and kissed his cheek. "Hey, Nurse Denton," he said. "I think you're breaking down. I'll get you in the sack yet."

"You got me a long time ago, Charlie. The only trouble is, we didn't meet soon enough."

When she thought about it, that was true. The very first time she'd come down to have lunch with him in the hospital, the day after the operation, she'd liked him. She knew he was dying and after a moment, she knew that he knew it. But it didn't stop him from playing the gallant. None of that bland, tasteless hospital food for him, even if he couldn't eat.

Instead, the food was rushed by motorcar from Romanoff's with a police escort out in front and the siren blaring all the way. And along with the food came a maître d' and two waiters to serve it.

He sat up in his bed, sipping champagne and watching her eat. He liked the way she ate. Picky eaters were usually selfish lovers. They gave you nothing, demanding the same sort of unattainable satisfaction in bed that they demanded from the table. He made up his mind instantly, as he always did. "I’m going to be sick for a while," he said. "I’m going to need a nurse. How would you like the job?"

She'd looked up from her coffee, her gray eyes quizzical. "There are nurses who specialize in home care, Mr. Standhurst. They'd probably be better at it than I am."

"I asked you."

"I have a job at Los Angeles General," she said. "A good job. Then sometimes I get special calls to help out here, like this one. It's the kind of work I'm good at."

"How much do you make?"

"Eighty-five a month, room and board."

"I’ll pay you a thousand a week, room and board," he said.

"But that's ridiculous!"

"Is it?" he asked, watching her steadily. "I can afford it. When the doctor left here this morning, he told me I've only got three months to go. I always expect to pay a little bit more when I can't offer a steady job."

She looked down as the waiter refilled her coffee cup. "You'd be here for about three weeks," she said. "That will give me time to give notice. When do you want me to start?"

"Right now. And don't worry about the notice. I already told Colton and Los Angeles General that you were coming to work for me."

She stared at him for a moment then put down her cup and got to her feet. She gestured to the maître d' and immediately the waiters began to wheel the table out. "Hey, what's the idea?" Standhurst asked.

Jennie didn't answer as she walked to the foot of the table and picked up the chart. She studied it for a moment and then came over and took the glass of champagne out of his hand. "If I’m working for you now," she said, "it's time you got some rest."

******

Time never passes as quickly as when it's running out, he thought. Somehow, everything seems sharper, clearer to the mind, even decisions are arrived at more easily. Perhaps it was because the responsibility for them couldn't come home to roost. No one can win an argument with a grave.

He felt the pain race through him like a knife. He didn't flinch but from her face, he knew that she knew. A strange kind of communication had grown between them. Words weren't necessary. There were times he thought she felt the pain, too.

"Maybe you'd better go to bed," she said.

"Not just yet. I want to talk to you."

"O.K.," she said. "Go ahead."

"You're not going back to the hospital, are you?"

"I don't know. I haven't really thought about it."

"You'll never be happy in a job like that again. I've spoiled you. There's nothing like a lot of money."

She laughed. "You're so right, Charlie. I've been thinking about that. Nothing's going to seem right ever again."

He studied her thoughtfully. "I could leave you something in my will, or even marry you. But my children would probably make a federal case out of it and say you influenced me. All you'd get is a lot of grief."

She met his gaze. "Thanks for thinking about it, anyway, Charlie."

"You need to make a lot of money," he said. "Why did you decide to be a nurse? You always wanted to be one?"

"No." She shrugged her shoulders. "What I really wanted to be was another Helen Wills. But I got a scholarship to St. Mary's, so I went."

"Even being a tennis bum takes money."

"I know. Anyway, it's too late now. I'd be satisfied if I could just make enough to hire the best pro around and play two hours every day."

"See!" he said triumphantly. "That's a hundred bucks a day, right there."

"Yeah. I’ll probably end up back at the hospital."

"You don't have to."

"What do you mean?" she asked, looking at him. "That's all I ever trained for."

"You started training for something else long before you studied nursing. Becoming a woman."

"Well, I couldn't have trained so well, then," she said wryly. "The first time I ever acted like a woman, I got my head knocked off."

"You mean Dr. Grant in Frisco?"

"How do you know about that?"

"Mostly a guess," he said. "But the paper automatically checks up on everyone who comes near me. Grant's got that reputation and the fact that you worked for him and left in such a hurry led me to that surmise. What happened? His wife catch you?"

She nodded slowly. "It was horrible."

"It always is when you're emotionally involved," he said. "It's happened to me more than once." He refilled his glass with champagne. "The trick is not to become emotionally involved."

"How do you do that?"

"By making it pay," he said.

"What you're saying, then, in effect, is that I should become a whore?" she said in a shocked voice.

He smiled. "That's only the Catholic in you that's talking. In the back of your mind, even you have to admit that it makes sense."

"But a whore?" she said, her voice still shocked.

"Not a whore, a courtesan or its modern equivalent, the call girl. In ancient civilizations, being a courtesan was a highly respected profession. Statesmen and philosophers alike sought their favors. And it isn't only the money that made it attractive. It's a way of life that's most complete. Luxurious and satisfying."

She began to laugh. "You're nothing but a dirty old man, Charlie. When do you bring out the French postcards?"

He laughed with her. "Why shouldn't I be? I was a dirty young man, too. But I was never stupid. You have all the equipment necessary to become a great courtesan. The body, the mind—even your nurse's training won't be wasted. True sex demands a greater intellectualism than simple animal rutting."

"Now I know it's time for you to go to bed." She laughed. "Next thing I know, you'll be suggesting I go to a school to learn all about it."

"That's an idea." He chuckled. "They're always after me to endow one college or another. Why didn't I think of it? The Standhurst College of Sex. Otherwise known as the Old Fucking School." He began to laugh heartily, then suddenly he grimaced in pain. His face whitened and beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead. He hunched over in his wheel chair.

In a moment, she was at his side, pushing up the sleeve of his robe, exposing his arm. Quickly she shot the syrette of morphine into his vein. His bony fingers gripped her arm, trying to push it away, as he stared at her with agony-laden eyes.

"For Christ's sake, Charlie," she said angrily. "Give yourself a break. Stop fighting it!" His grip relaxed for a moment and she emptied another syrette into him. She looked into his eyes and saw him fighting the comfort the drug would bring him. She took his fragile, thin hand and raised it swiftly to her lips.

He smiled as the drug began to cloud his eyes. "Poor little Jennie," he said softly. "Any other time and I’d have made you my queen!" His fingers brushed her cheek gently. "But I won't forget what we were talking about. I'm not going to let you go to waste just because I'm not going to be around to enjoy it!"


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