“You what?” Her manner changed, stepped up its intensity.
“Jimmie! Do you suppose it’s possible that—that Sarah never knew her passion was part non-Aryan? I mean to say—”
“Good God!” Jimmie studied the idea. “He’d tell her.”
The girl shrugged. “Maybe not. Maybe he thought she knew. After all, in New York, where he lives, it’s no secret. His middle name’s Jewish, and the family he’s related to helped finance the Revolutionary War. I remember reading that in a publicity story about the band he plays in. Suppose your mother got hold of the fact—”
“She did. She said so. Dad went to New York and came back with the information.”
“—and never told Sarah. Just sabotaged the thing on other grounds. The evidence would support the theory. Damn it, Jimmie, that would be a dirty trick!”
“Still—Sarah gave him up.”
Audrey was sitting straight in her chair. Her eyes flashed. “Wait! Let’s think! Your mother finds out your sister’s boy friend is partly Jewish. Your sister doesn’t know. Your mother is positive that it would make no difference whatever to your sister. So—she improvises. She turns the town against the lad. She makes Sarah fear that, if she married Harry, everybody would hate her and that Harry would probably desert her. That sort of stuff. Besides which, your mother works personally on the poor gal, day and night, to make her sign off. The pressure gets unbearable and Sarah, who is not an iron woman, finally does sign off—against her will, nature, desire, hope, wish, et cetera.”
“It could be,” Jimmie said slowly. “Shall we phone her up?”
Audrey smiled. “Efficient business man! ‘Do it now!’ It’s a delicate topic, Jimmie. Lemme think. Maybe we ought to phone up Harry, first. See if he’s still carrying the torch, too. After all, he may have gone the way of all flesh.”
“A point.”
Fifteen minutes later, excited, feeling at the same time a benighted fool, Jimmie was in a phone booth waiting for Mr. Meade to be summoned. He could hear a dance band playing faintly in the Chicago hotel he had called. Not faint was the pressure of Audrey’s chin on his shoulder. She had crowded into the booth with him—and unscrewed the bulb there, for “privacy.”
In a moment Jimmie heard a man’s voice, young, worried, suspicious. “Yes? This is Harry Meade. Is Muskogewan calling me?”
Jimmie swallowed. “Yeah. Hello, Harry. Look. This is going to seem like a cockeyed call to you. My name is Jimmie Bailey. Sarah’s brother. I just got back from England—”
The voice rose in pitch. Audrey could hear the words and the alarm in them. “Is something the matter with Sarah?”
Jimmie laughed. “No!”
“Then—!”
“Listen, mug! I’m her brother and I’ve just found out she’s nuts about you.”
“So what,” said Harry bitterly.
“So your family sicks dogs on me.”
“I’m trying to call back the dogs, if you’ll give me a chance. Listen. I’m a right guy. Are you?”
“I try to be. Go on.”
“You sound like it. Harry, did you ever tell Sarah that you were partly Jewish?”
There was a long pause. Very long. A voice incredibly strained. “Didn’t she know that—all the time?”
“I dunno, Harry. I’m going to find out. Only I wanted to be sure first that you were still—interested in her.”
“Interested!” The youth yelled the word. “Look! I’m mixed up, now! If you mean what I think you do—I believe I get it! I never did have one of those long talks about what went wrong—with Sarah. I don’t like scenes, and she was so darn mean and icy the last time I saw her, I got hurt about it—and walked out. You think it would make any difference if she didn’t know—and then did?” Jimmie could hear him swallow on the end of that.
“I’ll see.”
“Will you call me back, then? Hell! How can a fellow go and toot a clarinet, wondering about a thing like that—after he’s tried to quit wondering for a whole, long lot of months!”
“I’ll call you, Harry.”
Jimmie hung up. “Now—Sarah,” he said to Audrey. “I like the way this Harry talks.”
“Jimmie! I—look. Can I call Sarah?”
“Why, sure!” He smiled quietly. “The woman’s gentler technique?”
“Not that. But I thought—if we’ve guessed right about this—then telling Sarah will be doing her a big favor.”
“What do you want to do her a favor for?”
“So she’ll know I’m not mad that she read my diaries.”
Audrey was dialing. Jimmie slid behind her, and for a moment weltered in the thought that this was the essence of generosity. Then there came another thought—another possible face to put on Audrey’s deed: this was also the essence of a smart tactic. If Sarah were overcome with the news, overcome with joy—then, all the secrets in Audrey’s diaries would be forever secure.
Audrey’s father worked people that way, apparently.
Jimmie tried to shake off the suspicion—and he could not; although Audrey’s words, and her behavior, seemed to deny the truth of such a construction.
“Hello? Miss Bailey, please… a friend… personal… Hello? Sarah?… This is Audrey Wilson… Hey! I know you don’t want to talk to me… But I want to talk to you
… No, not about Jimmie… about Harry.”
Then, in a clear and gentle tone, Audrey told all about Harry—and the notion she and Jimmie had discussed. After that Sarah talked for several minutes. Jimmie could not hear a word. He heard, only, the low, intense pitch of his sister’s voice. But he did see that Audrey began nodding. And she sniffled once.
At last she spoke again: “No, Sarah… I wouldn’t do it tonight… no train and you couldn’t pack… Just phone him at the hotel… Yes… He certainly is expecting a call! Good night, darling… I’m glad—you feel like that!”
Audrey hung up. She buried her face in her hands for a moment. “That,” she said presently, with a sigh, “is probably a new high of some sort in marriage proposals. Sarah didn’t know. Said she might have heard once—and forgotten. But I think she just didn’t know. She was going to start for Chicago tonight. I advised her not to. But I bet Harry will start, tonight, for Muskogewan! And there will be merry hell to pay around town tomorrow! Wow!” Audrey laughed delightedly. She turned in the booth, hugged Jimmie, and she kissed him, lightly. “We’ve done a good deed that’ll last quite a while. Two lifetimes, maybe.”
“You’re a nice woman, Audrey.”
“Yeah. In a peculiar way—I am. Glad you found it out.”
“I—I—went back—that night—to Dan’s house. Did you hear me?”
Silence. “Went—back?” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“Oh, Jimmie! But you didn’t knock!”
“No. The house was dark and I could hear you—either crying or laughing—I couldn’t be sure—”
“Laughing!”
“I couldn’t tell—”
“Jimmie Bailey, did you even think, for one second I was laughing? Is that what you thought? And you sneaked away again! Laughing!! Does a girl who yanks out the lights and throws herself on a divan and practically chokes to death on tears for two hours sound like she was laughing! No kidding, Jimmie! I’m disappointed in you—terribly. And a telephone booth is no place to have our first quarrel! What does a girl have to do to convince you she’s mad about you, anyhow?”
Audrey pushed the door open. Jimmie stepped out, shakily. She followed, disheveled and damp from the warmth of the booth, and the anxiety of the calls, and the intense if vicarious emotion. Several people turned to look at them. The conclave on the porch had come to an end. Among those people was Audrey’s father. He nodded to Jimmie. He deliberately cut his daughter.