"Oh, for God's sake, I ain't going' do nothing! So all right, kid, maybe I got my wires crossed an' it's somethin' else-hope to God it is-but listen, come here, you gotta go and do that phone call for me, see, I can't-"
Danny yelled at him, "Be damned if I will, bastard yourself!" and kicked at his shins and bolted for the stairs as the man snarled at him.
Marty had crept back even farther toward the dark end of the hall; Mr. Smith didn't see him either. He made as if to go after Danny, stopped, said, "Oh, hell!" and went back into the apartment.
And Marty slid past the shut door and downstairs, but he didn't see Danny anywhere on the block. He wondered if Danny was hurt bad, his dad looked pretty strong. And if he'd ever hit Danny like that before-probably so, if he got mad that way a lot. For a minute, thinking about it, Marty felt some better himself, because maybe his own dad had gone away and left them, but he'd sure never, ever, hit him or said bad things to him-or anybody. Marty's dad, he always said it beat all how some fellows were all the time getting mad, you always sure as fate did something dumb or wrong when you was mad because you couldn't think straight. There was only a couple of times Marty could remember his whole life when Dad had got real mad, and then he didn't swear or yell, why, he'd never heard Dad say a damn, he was right strict about swearing. He didn't talk an awful lot any time, but when he was mad he didn't say anything at all.
He'd been awful mad, that last time-that night before he went away. Just didn't come home.
And on that thought, everything it made him remember, Marty stopped feeling better, and stopped wondering why Mr. Smith was so mad at Danny, what he'd been talking about.
He hadn't gone to the movies after all. It was a kind of crook picture and he didn't much want to see it really, though if he'd been with some other fellows he'd've had to pretend he did because it was the kind of thing everybody was supposed to like.
And now he was sitting here in the dark, alone with the secret, waiting for it to be time. And remembering, now, what Mr. Smith had said about cops. Cops outside, watching the house. Something funny happened inside Marty's stomach, like he'd gone hollow, and his heart gave an extra thud. Were they?-was it, was it because You had to do what was right, no matter what. Even if it meant you'd die, like in the gas thing they had in California. He knew, and he didn't see how his Ma could think a different way, it wasn't right people should get killed-like that-even if he hadn't ever meant, ever known even- Somebody ought to know, and stop it happening again. That was why he was sitting here cold and scared, waiting. Somebody. He hadn't exactly thought, the cops-but of course that was what he'd meant. And all of a sudden now, thinking about them maybe outside, cops meant something different, terrible, to be more scared of than anything-anything he knew more about…
Sometimes in the movies yelling at guys and hitting them and a thing called the third degree-the gas chamber in California-but once Dad had said, about one of those movies Marty'd told about, that was bad to show, it was wrong because policemen weren't like that at all any more, that was other times. A bright light they had shining right in your eyes and they- But Dad said Marty shut his eyes tight and tried to get back to that place, couldn't remember how long ago or if it was Tappan Street or Macy Avenue, where there'd been Dad just like always, sitting at the kitchen table, digging out his pipe with his knife and looking over the top of his glasses and saying-and saying-something about policemen being your friends, to help you.
He couldn't get there, to Dad that time. There he got to instead was that night before Dad-didn't come home. He was right there again, he saw Dad plain, awful mad he'd been for sure, his face an stiff and white and a look in his eyes said how hard he was holding himself in. Dad saying slow and terrible quiet, "I can't stand no more, Marion-I just can't stand no more."
And Marty knew right this minute just how Dad had felt when he said that. Because he felt the same way, not all of a sudden but like as if he'd only this minute come to know how he felt, plain.
I just can't stand no more.
He relaxed, limp, against the headboard, and a queer vague peace filled him. Like coming to the end of a long, long walk, like getting there-some place-at last, and he could stop trying any more.
It didn't matter what place, or what happened there. It was finished. I just can't stand no more.
The gas, and the cops whatever kind and whatever they did or didn't do, and even-more immediate and terrible-his Ma, and what would happen afterward, when she found out. Anything, everything, nothing, it wasn't anyways important any more.
Something had to happen, and what did it matter what or how? Maybe there were those cops doivn there, even two or three o'clock in the morning, and they'd see him, when he came out with-it-and take him to the police station. Maybe not; some other way, the way he'd thought or-maybe they already knew, he couldn't see how but they might. And in the end maybe they'd make him break the promise. It didn't matter how it came: he knew it would come, and it was time, he didn't care.
Time for the secret to be shown open, the terrible secret.
When Morgan finally moved, he was stiff with cold and the sense of failure, a resignation too apathetic now to rouse anger in him. He bad known hall an hour ago that Smith wasn't coming. Why he'd gone on standing here he didn't know.
He turned and went into the drugstore; hot stuffiness struck him in the face after the cold outside. The druggist was rearranging bottles on a sheer along the wall; he turned quickly, to watch Morgan-didn't come up to ask what he wanted. Maybe he thought he was going to get held up. Morgan scraped up all the change in his pocket, picked out a quarter, went up to the man.
"May I have change for the phone, please?"
"Oh, sure thing." The cash register gave brisk tongue; a kind of apologetic relief was in the druggists eyes as he handed over two dimes and a nickel.
As soon as he was inside the phone booth, Morgan began to sweat, in his heavy coat in that airless, fetid box. He sat on the inadequate little stool and dialed carefully. After two rings the receiver was lifted at the other end.
"Sue-"
"Dick!-their voices cutting in on each other, hers on a little gasp.
"I thought you'd call-been waiting-"
"Has he called?" asked Morgan tautly. "He didn't show, he won't now, and I'm afraid-darling, I'm afraid he's spotted those damn cops and thinks-"
"I don't think so." Her voice steadied. "She called, Dick. About ten minutes to eight. She said to tell you he'd got 'hung up' and couldn't make it, it'd have to be tomorrow night-and you'd get a phone call some time tomorrow, to tell you where and when."
Morgan leaned his forehead on the phone box for a second; a wave of tingling heat passed over him and be felt weak. "He got-delayed? He didn't-that's damn funny, I don't- Sue, you sure it was the woman, the same-?"
"I'm sure, darling. You remember what a soft, ladylike little voice she had, and she spoke quite well too, not glaringly bad grammar-she's had some education-but awfully timid and meek, as if she was cowed. I recognized it right away-and she sounded like a chdd reciting a lesson, as if she was reading the message off-"
"The woman," he said, "the woman. So she's still with him. Yes, we didn't think she was lying then, about being married. Yes, a cut above him all right, probably one of those natural doormats-husband's just being the superior male when he knocks her around. He -God, I was afraid-so it's just another breathing space, until tomorrow night. I wonder why."