“Gentlemen,” shouted Kit, “we are here assembled for a biological purpose! We are here assembled—”
“Sit down, sit down!”
“We are here assembled—”
“Can it!”
“The glasses are all filled!”
“Propose the toast!”
“Gentlemen, I am here assembled for that very purpose, if only you wouldn’t interrupt me.” He reached down for his glass. “Gentlemen, I propose a toast to the blushing bride! Everybody up.”
The twenty men rose, simultaneously tilted the goblets of champagne, after holding them obliquely toward their host; for a fraction of a moment were silent as they drank; and then, with terrific yells, flung the empty glasses at the fireplace. For an instant, Tom couldn’t remember whether he too was supposed to drink and smash his glass; then he did so, noticing that it hit the top of an andiron. The whole floor, before the fireplace, was covered with broken glass. Several goblets had gone wild—one had struck above the mantel, another had hit the piano, another had landed in a Morris chair, without breaking. And instantly, as if this wreckage were the signal for a fury of sound, there was a renewal of yells and singing. A waiter began sweeping up the glass, while others brought new glasss and more bottles. In no time at all, the oysters and soup were dispatched, claret succeeded champagne, and whisky succeeded claret; Roger Day was completely drunk, as usual, and crowned himself with a melon. Kit had left the room, looking very white; and the stories had begun. At first comparatively unobjectionable, they became rapidly more Rabelaisian; shouts of delight greeted them; the table was banged; at one particular sally Roger Day smashed a plate on the floor. A series of limericks were sung, each bawdier than the last. “O Johnny come up to me—O Johnny come up to me—!”
After an hour of this, and of steady drinking, Tom began to feel tired of laughing. He also began to feel a deep undercurrent of anger and hostility in his soul; he drank more Burgundy, half listened to the filthy stories, and then abruptly pushed his chair a little back from the table, toward a cool current of damp air which was coming from the open window behind him. What time was it? It was beginning to thunder—the thought of a cool thunderstorm was refreshing. If only he could sneak out—! The lights swam a little above him—he looked up, to see if he could detect them in the act of moving.
“Coffee, sir?”
“Thank you. Some coffee—”
The coffee cup seemed far away—he reached toward it uncertainly. “Mademoiselle from Armentières” was begun again, then “Down in the Lehigh Valley,” then “Colombo.” Then several songs were sung at once in different parts of the room—the party was becoming disorganized. He felt as if a valve had closed in his ears; everything was curiously muffled. These flushed faces and wide-open mouths had nothing to do with him. A few of the guests were leaving early. Good riddance.
“How are you, old man?”
It was Kit, still very pale, leaning over him unsteadily, his eyes bright.
“Rotten,” he said. “I think it’s rotten.”
“Why don’t you try the Roman feather? It’s two doors down on the left.”
“Go to hell.”
“All right. Go to hell yourself!”
A flash of green light flickered over the ceiling, over the glasses, making everything seem artificial, and was followed by a terrific peal of thunder. A ragged chorus of cheers. There was a moment’s silence, then the men began stumbling to their feet.
“That was thunder,” said Kit. “I know thunder when I hear it!”
“Who’s for a party, before it begins to rain?” said Roger Day. “I can call up Helen. Don’t all speak at once. There’s only room for six.”
He staggered to the window and looked out intently, holding the curtains aside with his two hands.
“It’s raining already,” he said. Then he shouted, “Look! There’s a fire! Say, kids, there’s a fire over there! Let’s go! What do you say!”
“Where? Let me see!”
There was a stampede to the window, followed by a terrific exodus into the hall. Everyone at once. Somebody was lying on the floor, moaning. Kit grabbed Tom by the arm and tried to pull him along.
“Come on,” he said.
“No. Let me alone. Get out. I’m going by myself and I’m going alone.”
“You’re drunk.”
“You’re drunk yourself. Let go my arm, Kit!”
“Don’t be a fool. You can’t drive in that state! This’ll give you a chance to get out of it.… Come on! Get up!”
Tom permitted himself to be pulled to his feet.
“You’re a bunch of lousy dirty little crabs,” he said. “All of you.”
“Shut up.”
Kit dragged him along the hall, found his hat and jammed it on his head for him, and then pushed him out into the street.
“You wait here,” he said. “Give me the key to the car.”
He took the key and ran off into the darkness. The rain was beginning to quicken. Tom watched the huge drops falling on the circle of illuminated sidewalk under a lamp. They were as big as pansies. He leaned down to watch them. Spat—spat—spat—they fell; and one or two plopped on his hat. A car drove off, and then another, their headlights hollowing bright swarms of raindrops out of the night. From the second car, a head was thrust forth and yelled, “Hurry up, Tom, you fool!”
“Go to hell!” he shouted back.
Let them all go to hell, the damned fools. He started to walk in the opposite direction from that which Kit had taken. There was another lightning flash. The rain began to fall harder. A good thing if he just walked away, and didn’t go back. But where would he go? He couldn’t go home like this—and there was nowhere else. What about the party at Helen’s? He had heard all about Helen from Kit. A “telephone” place. Kit had been there several times; he liked Helen, also a girl from St. Louis who had been there, a married girl who came up to Boston now and then for a “holiday.”… Or he might go to a movie, and sleep it off. Or the fire?… He looked up, and saw that the whole sky was red in the direction of the South Station, a wide glare against the clouds.… Kit suddenly seized him by the arm.
“Here! Where do you think you’re going?”
“Let me go, you damned fool!”
“The devil I will.… You get into that car.”
“Will you let me go?”
“No.”
He felt Kit’s hand closing hard about his wrist. Kit’s face was thrust near to his own, white and intense. A giddy wave of hate suddenly overwhelmed him; he struck the white face hard with his open hand, hard as he could, and felt the light spectacles smash. Kit staggered backward, lifted both hands to his eyes, bent his head over in a curious way, and stood perfectly still. Tom took a step toward him.
“Kit!”
“What in God’s name did you do that for!”
“Are you hurt? Let me see.”
Kit removed his hands, slowly, detaching the broken spectacles, and lifted his face. Blood was streaming down his left cheek from a gash below the eye.
“My God, Kit, I’m sorry! Is your eye hurt?”
“No.… Just a little flesh cut, I think.… Does it look bad? Try a handkerchief on it.”
They moved together into the ring of light under a street-lamp, and Tom began dabbing the wound with his handkerchief. Thank God—it wasn’t as bad as he had thought.
“It’s about half an inch,” he said. “I don’t think it’s very deep. You’d better hold the handkerchief against it.… Where’s the car?”