What if they arrest you, how good are you going to act? The thing to do is send for a lawyer and not say anything till he comes. Send for Dick and tell him to bring a lawyer, ask him to bring Stetson, he’s the best of that bunch. What will you tell Stetson? You won’t dare tell him everything; all about the last two years, yes, but not that there’s been any difficulty. Shall you tell him about Grace? What if you don’t, and he finds out and questions her? How much does she know? Then he’ll suspect everything you tell him. You’ve got to be as careful what you say to your own lawyer as if he were after you too. For the Dick part of it, you’ll have to leave it to Dick; you’ll have to see Dick alone first and put it up to him.
You’ve never shot any kind of firearm to amount to anything, except that little twenty-two rifle you used to hunt rabbits with. It was never much fun; you couldn’t bear to get your hands bloody. Red Adams used to string them on his belt by the hind legs, so that his overalls had a ring of sticky blood around the knees. Jane would always help you skin them and hang them up on the back porch to freeze. She’s never been squeamish about anything. If only there’s nobody there with her! If once you get it over, and get out, and get to her house and find her there sitting in the back room reading, as she often is, you’ll be safe. What about the maid? Leave it to her, she’ll attend to it somehow.
Suicide’s a funny thing. You’re afraid to think of it, but once you do think of it there’s nothing to be afraid of. You stand there in the bedroom, in the middle of the room, and put the barrel in your mouth and point it up towards the top of your head, and there’s nothing wrong with you; you can do whatever you damn please, you can take it out again and go and eat your supper. Or you can pull the trigger, just simply press your finger down, that’s all, finish...
She’ll be sitting in that chair, now, when you go in. You will close the door behind you, and deliberately take the revolver from your pocket and take off your scarf and wrap around it. What will she do? She’ll sit and watch you. Will she be startled or frightened, will she cry out or plead with you or otherwise finally admit your existence as a force, needing to be considered? She won’t believe in it. She might, though, she might scream. You don’t know what’s in your face; you are doing something she thinks is not in you, and if your face gives it away she might scream and shout for help. Ah, if she does! You’d like to hear that once. But then you might fail.
All right. Go on up. Go on and get it over with.
You might have known you’d knock that damn lamp off.
IX
He reached down, and quietly and precisely picked up the lamp and set it back in its niche, trying to make the shade hang straight. “Yes, it’s me, Mrs. Jordan,” he called down. “Knocked the lamp off again.”
Her voice came:
“Oh — I thought maybe it was someone to see Miss Boyle. If you break it you’ll have to pay for it.”
A door in the basement opened noisily, then banged shut; Mrs. Jordan had returned to her room. Silence. Still he stood — the idea of movement was hateful — he felt physically exhausted, and completely indifferent to all things. He told himself, you might as well be a dead leaf hanging on a tree...
Do other people feel like this? If they do why do they live? A dead leaf blown in the wind. It isn’t so much the helplessness; you could stand it to feel yourself pushed and pulled, here and there, if only you knew what was doing it and why. You called yourself a weakling and a coward because you let Lucy go, but that was silly.
In November, two years after Lucy had left, Erma suddenly decided to go to Europe. You had never heard from Lucy or written to her. In your room was her photograph; for a long time it stood open on your chiffonier, then, one day, just after you got back from your visit home when you told Jane all about it, you took the photograph down and put it away — in a drawer. It’s probably still around somewhere.
Throughout those two years it was obvious that everyone, including Dick, expected momentarily to hear that you and Erma were engaged. You yourself wouldn’t have been surprised if some morning at breakfast you had found an item on the society page of the Plain Dealer: “Miss Erma Carr announces her engagement to Mr. William Barton Sidney.”
You did in fact find information in the society column one morning, but it was to the effect that Miss Carr would leave shortly for an extended stay abroad. All day at the office you expected to hear from her, and when at five o’clock no word had come you telephoned to Wooton Avenue.
“How long are you going to stay?” you asked.
“A winter, a month, ten years! Why don’t you come over next summer? Meet me’ in Brittany or Norway or somewhere. You ought to have a real vacation anyway. We could stay over there forever, and you could run back once a year to attend the stockholders’ meeting.”
You were puzzled and irritated. Was this a proposal of marriage, or was it a polite hint that she would like to change her business arrangements?
“By the way,” you said, “now that you’re going away maybe you’d prefer to turn your proxy over to Dick. Seriously, I think it would be a good idea. You don’t know how long you’ll be gone, and after all who am I? I’m in an anomalous position. You can be sure that Dick doesn’t relish having a mere employe dressed up like an equal.”
“Has he been nasty?” she asked quickly.
“Lord no. I’m not complaining. It’s just that there doesn’t seem to be much sense in it, and naturally I feel a little ridiculous.”
“You don’t need to. You shouldn’t. As for the proxy, keep it if you please.” She hesitated, then went on, “I didn’t intend to mention it, but the other day Tom Hall insisted that I make a will, and if I fall off an Alp or drink myself to death you’ll be able to celebrate by buying a yacht.”
You’ve always been curious about that will. What exactly did it say? Surely not the whole to you; yet with Erma you can’t tell. There was no one else but Dick, and she wasn’t apt to swell him up. The whole thing! Under certain circumstances, then you could have given Dick something to think about. Was it changed later when she married Pierre? Perhaps, no telling; if so, has it again been changed to you?
It was more than a year before you got a letter from her, a note rather, and then another year to the next. When she got married she didn’t write you about it at all; you learned of it from a letter to Dick.
It is amusing to speculate on the probabilities in Pearl Street if you had not had that proxy in your safe deposit box. Though that’s not fair either; why must you constantly pretend that Dick tried to choke you off?
One day he said to you:
“What do you think of this New York thing? We might as well decide it. I was thinking last night — I say yes, at once. Gustafson says that England alone will place half a billion in six months. If we handle it right, and if those idiots keep on fighting a year or two, there’ll be no limit — hell, anything’s possible. I’m uncomfortable every minute I’m away from those boatloads of easy money. What do you think?”
“I think I’ll go home and pack up,” you laughed.
The next day you went to New York to find offices, and paid a fortune in premiums to vacate leases. Within six weeks the entire organization, sales and administrative, was moved and installed. Exhausted by your labors, you were nevertheless stimulated and refreshed by the interest of the new activities and the new scene. The tempo everywhere was quickened. As for Dick, he plunged into the boiling middle of it, his mouth shut but his eyes open, grabbing with both hands. You reflected that he was making himself and his sister two of the richest persons in America, but certainly it never occurred to him; he was much too busy to think about it.