"I'm fine," Polly said as she stepped inside. The doctor left and Polly said, "Susie's going to get the dickens for going to the movies without telling her mother." She looked around and said, "Where's Daddy?"
"Gone away."
"For a long time?"
"I'm afraid so."
"He said you were going away. But I'm glad it's him instead of you."
"Are you, darling?" She dried her tears. "Are you?"
Polly nodded, and said, "I'm famished."
"So am I."
They sat at the table and she served them both a large portion of the casserole, still hot over the little burner.
"It's good," Polly said. "What is it?"
"Guess."
"Chicken?"
"No, not chicken."
"Veal?"
"No."
"Then what?"
"A secret recipe," she said, and smiled fondly, faintly at her daughter.
Daddy-O
by DAVID ALEXANDER
It is generally agreed that it takes all kinds to make a world — an imperfect world, that is. This tale of mounting uncomfortableness contributes a singularly unattractive villain, a Mr. Heavenridge. Anent Mr. Heavenridge, it is my humane feeling that they also serve who smell quite badly.
Marcia had run away again. That was the short, sad history of her younger sister's life, Helen thought bitterly. Marcia always ran away. She could never face up to unpleasantness, to any reality. When something like this occurred, Marcia ran. She had many means of escape. The sleeping pill Marcia had just taken was one; alcohol, another. But mostly Marcia escaped through some queer mental process of her own, into a world of fantasy where everything was exactly as she wanted it to be. She could never accept things as they were.
Helen had warned her, of course, about Paul Carter. Paul was the latest of many young men in Marcia's life. Helen had warned her sister about most of them, but Marcia would never listen. Never listening was another method that Marcia employed to run away from the realities of existence. Paul was a nice enough young man in his weak-chinned way, Helen supposed. He was pleasant of manner, vacuously good-looking, well-dressed, financially secure. But he was married and he was the father of two children. What was worse, he was married to the daughter of Mr. Enright, who owned the firm where Marcia had been employed as a secretary. As Paul Carter's secretary, in fact. Paul's father-in-law had made him vice-president of the Enright Advertising Agency.
Helen felt sure that the affair had been none of Paul's doing. Marcia had probably thrown herself at young Carter. When Marcia had quit her job, a well-paying job, because her relations with Paul had become too noticeable, she had been sure that Carter would divorce his wife, sacrifice his career and marry her. Of course, that hadn't worked out any more than Marcia's other fantasies had. Tonight Paul had come to the apartment to tell Marcia he couldn't see her any more, that stories had got back to his wife and his father-in-law. It must have required an unusual amount of courage on his part to do that. Paul, like Marcia, had a way of running away from issues instead of facing them.
Helen shivered and hugged the dressing robe tight around her slim body as she thought of the horrible scene that had ensued. She had been working on an illustration for a fashion magazine in her bedroom, which also served as her studio. Through the closed door, she had heard Marcia screaming hysterical imprecations at Paul. She had thought of the living room window that opened on an areaway, the possibility of the neighbors hearing what was going on, and had rushed to close it. That was when Marcia had smashed the vase over Paul's head. It was a heavy vase, but the blow was so hard that it had been broken into a dozen pieces. The fragments of pottery still made an unsightly litter on the floor. Paul had slumped from his chair and had lain there on the floor, terribly motionless, his face drained of color, blood seeping slowly and insidiously from the cut on his head. For an awful moment, Helen had thought he was dead. Of course, Marcia had run away, had run to her own bedroom and locked the door. Helen had bathed and dressed Paul's wound and then he left the apartment, still very unsteady on his feet. Helen glanced at the clock. That was more than half an hour ago, she thought. I hope he's all right. I hope he had sense enough to find a doctor. I hope he has some believable explanation for his split scalp when he gets home.
Helen noticed that the living room window was still open, that the shade had not been lowered. The thing had happened with such sickening suddenness, that she had forgotten her reason for having come into the living room. Oh well, she thought, the apartment across the areaway is dark. The apartment was usually dark. It was occupied by a grossly fat old man who apparently lived alone. Helen had encountered him in the hall a time or two.
It was a large apartment for an old man to live in alone, Helen thought, trying consciously to keep her mind from the violent incident that had just occurred. The layout, she knew, was the same as that of the flat she and Marcia occupied. The building was a huge old graystone New York apartment house, off upper Broadway, once a good neighborhood that was going into dry rot from neglect. The streets were filled with brown-faced youths who wore leather jackets. Their eyes were hard beyond their years. Helen was frightened by them. She did not like coming home alone, late at night. She was frightened for Marcia, too. Marcia often stayed out very late. But their apartment was large and the rent was reasonable. There were two bedrooms. When Marcia had come to New York she had demanded a bedroom of her own, saying she was nervous and slept poorly at best. Helen's own bedroom had a north light and was therefore also able to serve as a studio. Helen made her living as an illustrator, for fashion magazines, and she worked at home.
Helen glanced at the clock again. It was after midnight now. I must go to bed, she thought, even if I can't sleep. She began to switch off lamps in the living room. She caught a glimpse of herself in a wall mirror. She thought she could see the beginning of little crow's tracks around her eyes and mouth. I'm twenty-eight, she thought. That makes me a spinster, I guess. She had devoted the best of her youth to taking care of her younger sister.
She was about to turn off the last of the lamps, when there was a sudden, loud knocking at the door to the apartment.
She stood frozen for a moment, paralyzed with fear. It's the police, she thought. Paul must have collapsed from loss of blood and somehow they've found out what happened here.
There was a little peephole in the door, covered by a hinged metal lid. Helen raised the little lid. The fat old man who lived in the front apartment was standing at the door, thudding down repeatedly with the small brass knocker.
Helen said through the small peephole, "Please stop that knocking! My sister's asleep. What is it?"
It was the first time she had ever heard the old man speak. His voice was deep and unctuous, though he made an attempt to keep it low.
"Open up, my dear," he said. "It's most important. A matter of life and death, in fact. I can't speak through this little hole."
Helen hesitated. Finally she opened the door, attempting to block the entrance with her body, but the bulk of the old man pushed her aside and he walked into the room.
"Really!" Helen exclaimed. "Please tell me what this is all about. It's after midnight!"
"I apologize for the intrusion, my dear," the old man said calmly. "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Heavenridge. George M. Heavenridge. Past seventy, retired, and quite harmless, I assure you, my child. And there you have my history. Now, as to my business." His thick lips smiled at Helen. The room was filled with the odor of his unclean clothes and of stale cigar smoke. He rubbed his gray-stubbed chin, the flabby jowls, with a pudgy hand. The fingers were brown with nicotine and tipped by black half-moons.