menu_book Chapter 35

Book III, Chapter IV, Sections V through VI of Bread. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Wild Shimmering Path. Bread by Charles G. Norris. Book III, Chapter IV, Sections V through VI.

She powdered her shoulders and did her hair. She red-lipped her mouth. She hooked the black satin dress about her. She hung her generous string of artificial pearls around her neck and screwed the large artificial pearl earrings upon her ears.

At five o'clock she was ready, and for the ensuing thirty minutes she studied her reflection in the glass, turning first to one side then to the other, noting various effects. She wore no hat, but tonight her hair, with its distinguished touch of white, was dressed high, and thrust into its thick coil at the back of her head were three large, brilliant rhinestone combs. Promptly at the half-hour Martin was announced, and slipping on the marvellous jacket,

rolling the fur luxuriously against her neck, Jeanette descended in the elevator and met him in the foyer. The glance he gave her satisfied her. She knew Martin. He had not changed. There remained only Ruthie, and in that instant it came to Jeanette a cold, disdainful manner would put herself bound and helpless at Ruthie's mercy. They were two shrewd and clever women. She assumed Ruthie would be shrewd and clever, meeting one another under strange and difficult circumstances.

Any hint of condescension, any suggestion of a patronizing air, and Ruthie would be laughing at her. No, the part for her to play was one of all sweetness and amiability. Graciousness was her only salvation. Martin guided her out of the hotel, his fingers at her elbow, a limousine swept up to the door. It was a parrot, and there was a liveried chauffeur at the wheel. Get right in, Jan! He stooped through the doorway and sank heavily against the upholstered cushions

beside her. The starter touched his cap and banged the door. Memories swept back upon Jeanette, memories of another motor car, a taxi cab, and another starter, who had banged shut an automobile door upon the two of them, and of a night pulsing with high emotions, hopes, and young love. Her little excited mother, with her pendant trembling cheeks dressed in her lavender velvet, had been with them on that other night, and she had sat beside her daughter where Martin now was sitting,

and Martin had occupied the small collapsible seat opposite, and had balanced himself there with his knees uncomfortably hunched up to keep his feet out of the way. What we call the parrot convertible. It's just out this year, Martin was explaining. You see, with a little manipulation of the glass windows and seats, you can turn it from a limousine into a sedan and drive it yourself. How clever, she said. You know, Martin,

it delights me to think of your being so successful. It was coming to you. You were born to be a good salesman, and I'm glad you've gotten into a line of business where your talents count for something. You were entirely out of your element with that engraving company. They didn't begin to appreciate you. They didn't, did they? That younger Gibbs, Herbert Gibbs. He was certainly a little rat if there ever was one. You know, I had a terrible

row with him after—after—and I'm glad, too, proceeded Jeanette hastily, that you've married again and have got your son and daughter. You were always crazy about children. Remember how you used to rave about Alice's Etta and Ralph when they were babies? You betcha, how art? And then you were much too fine and too good for that Cohasset Beach crowd. They were a bunch of good scouts, all right. Weren't they? Jeanette said, veering quickly. Every one of them has made good.

Steve Teschenmacher's quite wealthy. Tell me about him, tell me about him all. Say, do you ever go down to Cohasset Beach anymore. Oh, yes, frequently Alice and Roy bought there, you know. The deuce they did. You don't mean to say so. Well, say, John, who's living in the bungalow? Say, Janny, I often think they were busy in reminiscences, interrupting one another, laughing, ejaculating, now and then arrested by a memory that was not altogether mirth-provoking,

and unexpectedly stirred them. At times Martin swayed in his seat and pounded his knee. By God! he would shout gleefully. By God! I've forgotten that! By God! That was a hot one, all right! Say, that had gone completely out of my mind. You're a wonder for remembering little things, Jan. By golly! The car rolled smoothly out over the paved highway that circled through the hills. Large, handsome houses with lights shining here and there from windows, and surrounded

by tall, gaunt, leafless trees, alternated on either side of the road and fled past. Their own vehicle was but one link in a long chain of nimble bugs with glowing antennae, which crawled hard upon one another along the winding course. There came an abrupt turn. The motor car swung up a steep driveway, slid onto crunching gravel, and stopped. Here we are! exclaimed Martin. The chauffeur leaped from his seat and attentively opened

the car door. A large frame house of gracious lines with exterior stone chimneys, many windows, and a precipitous lawn that swept down to the roadway a hundred feet or more below. We get a splendid view of the valley here, said Martin, coming to stand beside Jeanette as she looked out across the country. The landscape was shrouded in dusk, pricked with a myriad of lights. There was a jagged silhouette of distant treetops, and beyond a pale mother-of-pearl sky touched faintly with dying pink.

They turned to the house, and as Martin stooped to insert his latchkey, there was the quick run of small feet within. The door was flung open, and a little girl hurled herself upon him with a violent, silent hug. Well, well, said Martin. How's my darling? He kissed her with equal vigor, his hat knocked at an angle upon his head. This is Tinker, he said, smiling at Jeanette. Everybody calls her Tinker, but her real name's

Elizabeth. Where's your brother, Tinker? An answering clatter and rush came from an interior region, and a small boy flung himself upon the man. And this is Joe, Johnny. He has a nickname, too. Sometimes we call him Josephus. Don't we, old blunderbuss? There was another vigorous embrace. The two children regarded Jeanette with shy but friendly glances. The little girl was about nine, the boy two or three years younger. Tinker was brown of skin and brown of eye. Her hair was

short and tawny and swept off her face in an old-fashioned way, held back by an encircling comb that reached from one temple to the other. She was freckled and had an alert, engaging expression, while her brown eyes were sharp as shoe buttons and twinkled between long, tawny eyelashes. Simply, she approached Jeanette and held up her brown arms as she offered her lips. The boy was diminutive and wiry with furtive glance and grinning mouth that displayed a gaping

hole left by two missing front teeth. He hung his head as he held out his small hand, but as Jeanette took it he darted a quick upward look into her face and gave her a friendly elfish grin. Jeanette was moved, captivated at once by the charm of both. Their darlings! came involuntarily from her, and then there was the sound of descending feet upon the stairs,

and Jeanette straightened herself from the crouching position in which she had greeted the children to face their mother. A pretty woman, and sweet, younger than I expected, went Jeanette's thoughts. Nothing to fear here. Ruthie was in truth a pretty woman,

pretty without being either beautiful or handsome. Her expression was bright, alert, eager, her manner friendly and effusive. She resembled her small son. This is Ruthie, Jeanette began Martin. How do you do? said Ruthie, hurrying forward, leaving no doubt of her cordiality. It was very nice of you to come to us tonight? Not at all, Jeanette responded with her best smile. It was nice of you to want me.

I was anxious to know you, said Ruthie. She could afford to be gracious, thought Jeanette. She had everything. The home, the children, money, position. She had Martin. Was it possible they were really married? Or did Ruthie merely think she was his wife? Jeanette was piloted upstairs to a large pleasant bedroom. The chairs, the tables, the bureau, and the chauvenier. The twin beds were all of bright bird's eye maple. Rose hangings were at the windows.

Rose silk comforters were neatly folded at the foot of each bed. Rose shades on the wall lights diffused a soft rosy radiance. The dressing table glittered with silver toilette articles, and Jeanette noticed they were all monogrammed RTD. Flanking them were large silver-framed photographs, one of Martin,

a handsome, fierce-looking Martin in evening dress, the other of the two children, tinker with her arm about her brother. domesticity radiated everywhere. I never looked better, Jeanette thought consolingly as she caught a full-length reflection of herself in the long mirror impaneled in the bathroom door. Her hair pleased her, her high collar was most becoming. She knew herself to be beautiful.

She went downstairs, serene and confident, sure of being able to carry off the evening with lightness and ease. I thought it would be quieter and perhaps a little pleasanter without the children at table, said Ruthie brightly as Jeanette joined her. So I arranged to give them an early supper, and now Martin's been scolding me. He thinks you'll be disappointed. Oh, it doesn't matter, Jeanette murmured. Martin's almost unreasonable about them.

He wants them all the time, continued Ruthie. I tell him if he had them on his hands all day, perhaps he wouldn't be quite so enthusiastic. She laughed an amused little laugh like the twittering of a bird. He couldn't be fonder of them if they were his own, she added. There was a moment's pause. You see, I'd lost my first husband before I met Martin. Ruthie continued thoughtfully. My first marriage wasn't very successful.

She did think she was married then. You were divorced? asked Jeanette. If there was a barb to the question, it failed in effect. No, Mr. Mason was killed. He was rather intemperate, and there was an accident.

I met Martin sometime afterwards, and he was wonderful to me. You've known him long? Let me see. About seven years. Joe was only a baby, and we were living in Scranton. Martin and I married about a year after my husband's death. I was having a very hard time of

it. Mr. Mason carried but very little life insurance, and I took up manicuring. I had to. There was no other way for us to get along. She smiled at the last. He was sorry for her, thought Jeanette. That was the way of it. That had been your—your profession formerly? Jeanette asked with an innocent air. No, I had to learn it, Ruthie said, unruffled.

I had to do something. I only did private work, you know. She cast a quick glance at Jeanette's face. Martin and I didn't meet in a barber's shop, she added with a bright laugh. Jeanette could think of nothing to say to this, so she nodded and gazed into the red coals of the great fire before which the two women were standing. Here he is, Ruthie said suddenly. Martin's step could be heard approaching, and in a moment he entered the living room. Jeanette noticed he had

changed into dinner clothes. Well, Jan, it's mighty darned nice to see you here, he said advancing, rubbing his hands. He appeared well-groomed, was freshly shaved. His clothes fitted him to perfection. His thick neck and swarthy skin seemed clean and wholesome. Have a little cocktail, he suggested. I've got a Cracker Jack bootlegger that brings me the stuff direct from New York real old Gordon. If this damned governor of ours has his way, we're not likely to get any more of

it. This prohibition stuff makes me sick, doesn't it you? It doesn't bother me, Martin, Jeanette answered lightly. I never drink anything. Well, how about having a little cocktail tonight, just by way of celebration, huh? What do you say? No, thank you, Martin, not tonight. I really never touch it, but don't let me stop you two. Ruthie doesn't drink either. She's a plum teetotaler. Believes in it. What do you know about that? Martin laughed good-naturedly. His mirth had

the old-time extraordinary infectious quality. Don't bother about mixing a cocktail tonight, Martin dear, Ruthie said in a persuasive voice. It takes you so long with the ice and everything, and dinner's late now. I'll have a little of the straight stuff then, he said, still rubbing his hands in high good humor. They went together into the dining room through the double glass doors, curtained in shired folds of pink silk. The table was glittering with polished silverware and

sparkling glass. In the center was a low fern in a metal fern dish. Martin unlocked a door in the sideboard, took out a whiskey bottle, held it up a moment to the light to inspect the measure of its contents and poured himself an inch into a tumbler. Do you remember that guy who used to always say, Saloon, when he was taking a drink? asked Martin, grinning at Jeanette. He was a card, all right. Well, Saloon. He drained the drink in two gulps, followed it with a drought of water,

and sat down smacking his lips. A maid appeared, bearing a tureen of soup, and presently passed cheese straws. Jeanette observed her spotless white bibbed apron and black dress, and she took note of the fine sprays of celery and olives in side dishes on the table twinkling with ice. The dinner proceeded comfortably, well-served, well-cooked, stereotyped, a roast of beef with potatoes browned in the pan, canned French peas, a salad of chopped apples and nuts, a dessert of

cake and ice cream. She recalled with a sharp twinge the company dinners she had struggled so hard to prepare for Martin and his friends, and the effort she had made to serve him things he liked so as to make him want to stay at home. Ah, she had tried, she reminded herself, she had really tried hard to be a good wife to him. It was all so much easier for Ruthie. She had her cook, her waitress, and there was even the chauffeur. So easy to sit still and

merely tell them what to do. And Martin? Well, he had matured. He had settled down, was more seasoned, more reasonable, more disciplined. She noticed for the first time a jagged white scar on his right temple. It had not been there when she had known him. Throughout dinner he was in the gayest of spirits. Ruthie turned bright alert eyes from one face to the other, Jeanette felt the last vestige of constraint slip from her. The talk was all of

Tinker and Josephus, of the good schools of Jenkintown, of motor cars and the future of the automobile industry, of traffic laws and Philadelphia and things in general. Every once in a while a chance remark would sound a personal note, but the three with one accord would veer away from it and pursue another topic. There was no telling where rocks of disaster might be hidden. But after dinner, when Martin stood before the sucking coal fire in the living room,

stirring his coffee, a fresh cigar tilted up in the corner of his mouth, his head twisted to one side to avoid the smoke, it was evident the moment had arrived when he wanted to hear news of his old friends and start recalling old times. Tinker and her brother presented themselves to say goodnight,

and their mother made them an excuse for leaving her husband and her guest together. She's far smarter than one would ever suspect from that affected bright expression, thought Jeanette, smiling at the children as they tumbled themselves out of the room. Ruthie did not reappear until nearly ten o'clock, and then came in with many apologies for having been detained.

Martin by that time had heard all the news, had heard of Roy and Alice, of poor unfortunate Doc French, of Dolph Kuntz and Fritz and Steve, and even of some of the changes in the publishing company which interested him. He was far from satisfied, however, and wanted to go over it all once more. Say, do you remember that night, Jan, you and I and that Scotch friend of yours,

and that awful fright he took along with him had dinner up on the Astor roof? What became of that guy? And, do you remember that time we got stuck out in the sound aboard the Webster's yacht? Say, do they have any more racing down there? What became of all the little A-boats?

But Jeanette knew the time for leaving had come. She rose, smiling. I'm sorry, Martin. I shall have to say goodnight. I really must be going.

My day's very full tomorrow. He was loud in protest, a little unnecessarily loud, Jeanette thought. She tried to dissuade him from accompanying her back to the hotel, but he insisted. I wouldn't think of you riding back all by yourself, Jan. That wouldn't do at all. The car's right here, the man's waiting. He'll run me in and run me

out again in less than an hour. I'll be home again in no time. Ruthie urged, too. Oh, yes, she insisted brightly. You must let Martin take you back to town. It won't hurt him a bit, and you two have such a lot to talk over together about old times and everything. The little woman's face was wreathed with smiles. She was confident, solicitous. She was sure of herself, sure of Martin. Her concern had every semblance of sincerity. Jeanette felt baffled,

vaguely irritated. The two women said goodnight to one another with appropriate phrases and amiability. Ruthie stood in the shining arch of the doorway as the motor-car swept up to the steps, crunching on the fine gravel of the drive, and Jeanette and Martin got in. She even managed a little wave of the hand as its doors slammed and the car started. Jeanette hated her.

It was impossible to guess what thoughts were behind that alert expression of innocent pleasure. You've come on in the world, Martin, she observed. Yes, I've made a little money, but I'm going to make more, a good deal more. You know, I often think of the old man and the old woman up there in Watertown settling down forty, or I guess it's fifty years ago, to running that little grocery business of theirs,

and I can't help wishing sometimes they were round to see how good I've made. They'd get an eyeful, all right. But I've worked for my success, Jan. That is, I've worked hard the last five years. You know, I was down and out for a while. Were you? I didn't know that. How did that happen? Martin cleared his throat and twisted a little in his seat, so as to talk more directly at her. I was pretty badly caught up, Jan, when you ran out on me.

Were you? You bet I was, and I began hitting her up there for a while. I let things go to the devil and I was boozing a good deal. There were two or three years there when I wasn't much better than a bum. Martin! Well, I was sore at the world, and sore, I guess, at you. Yes, pretty damn sore. You know, Jan, I didn't think you treated me quite right, and then I blamed myself an awful lot for the way I treated you. It was too bad, Jeanette said slowly. I think maybe we were both

wrong. We were very young and inexperienced, Mart. Yes, that's right. We pulled the wrong way. I'm sorry you took it so badly. I didn't feel extra good about it myself. I've often wished since. Oh, there's no use going over the old ground now. It's all over and done with, but I was mighty fond of you, Jenny. Don't, Martin. You bet I was. I took it pretty hard when you left me. I didn't care what happened to me. I'm sorry. It wasn't easy for me either, if you'd only come back, or sent word.

You don't understand, Jan. I was down and out then. I had nothing to offer you. I'd punched Gibbsy's face and I'd lost my job and I was driving a truck. That is when I was working at all. Martin! Oh, what's the use of going back over old times? He said with sudden harshness. You've changed and I've changed. I'm married now, got a home and family, and I'm happy, Jan. Ruthie's a good little woman. When did you marry, Mart? In, let's see, in 1917, just before we got

into the war. I got a job as a salesman in an automobile agency in Scranton. Tinker and her mother were living next door to my boarding house. It was Tinker that caught my eye first. She and I used to have great times together. I was crazy about that kid. And then I met Ruthie. and after that you were married? Well, not right away. I had to get free first. You were awfully decent about not contesting the suit, Jan, but then I was pretty sure you wouldn't.

And was there a suit? Why, sure. I got a decree in New York. They gave it to me. You never showed up. I don't remember, said Jeanette vaguely. You were served with a summons. We had the testimony of the process server. You let the case go by default. Did I? I can't. I don't seem to remember. What were the grounds? I thought in New York State you had to prove—Martin leaned forward in his seat and stared

at her through the dimness in the car, trying to see her face. Say, what is this? he asked. Are you trying to kid me? Rub it in or something like that? No, Martin, she answered earnestly. I don't know what you're talking about. I never supposed we'd been divorced. Good God! Did you think we were still married? Why, certainly. The man dropped back against the upholstery with a short explosion of breath. Tell me about it, Martin.

You make it damned hard, Jan. If you're trying to rub it in, you're certainly doing a nifty job. No, Martin, truly, I'm quite honest. He was silent, and Jeanette had to plead again for enlightenment. I don't understand this, he said, troubled. But tell me, I want to know. Well, you know I was damned sore at you, he began at length. I wanted to get married. Ruthie Tinker and the baby needed me. She was up against it and was having a tough time trying to

make ends meet. I wanted to help out, but she wouldn't let me, and the only thing for it was to get married. So I went to a lawyer there in Scranton and asked him if he'd fix it so I could get a divorce from you. He got in touch with a firm in New York, and they dug up all that rot about you and Corrie. Oh my God, gasped Jeanette in a whisper. Oh, I knew it was the bunk. You'd told me the story and I knew you'd given me the straight dope, but there was the evidence and the

sworn affidavits of the hotel employees that Corrie's wife had secured. It made enough of a case. I'm damned ashamed of it now, Jan. I wish to God I'd never done it, but I was sore, remember, and I wanted to get married to Ruthie. There was painful silence in the swaying car. Jeanette sat very still, two fingers of each hand pressed against her cheek. I was pretty certain you'd let it go by default. Martin went on after a while in a distressed voice.

It was no case you'd want to contest, and I thought you probably wanted your freedom as much as I did. I thought surely you'd married long ago. Silence reigned again. Jeanette struggled with herself, Martin concerned at her voicelessness. By God, Jan, I thought you knew all about it. I swear to God I did. The process server stated in court he'd handed you the summons, and saw you pick it up. I heard him say it with my own ears.

The referee warned him about perjury, thought he smelled collusion or something of that sort. He ragged me something fierce. It was rotten the way it turned out, for the case came up right after your friend Corey died, and I felt pretty mean blackening a man's character when he wasn't more than cold in his grave, especially as I knew it was a frame-up. A pent-up breath escaped Jeanette like a moan. A scene flashed before her mind. A dark street. The street just in front of the office.

it was late, and the crowd of clerks and workers was pouring out of the doorway, hurrying homeward with gravity in their hearts and the news on their lips that Chandler B. Corey, the president of the company, had that day dropped dead at his desk. And among these sobered men and women walked herself, shocked and shaken, trying to realize that the best friend she had in the world was gone, and would never be at hand again to advise

her nor be interested in what befell her. As she stepped into the street a man in a slouch hat confronted her, demanding to know if she was Mrs. Martin Devlin, thrust a folded paper at her and disappeared. She remembered drawing back, frightened and affronted, and after the man had made off, rescuing the paper from the sidewalk at her feet where it had fallen. It was dark in the street, too dark to read. She recalled holding the paper up to decipher what was printed on the first page

and then, indifferent, her heart and mind heavy with the tragedy of the day, had thrust it into her muff and sorrowfully made her way homeward. Days later, when she remembered the incident and searched her muff, the paper had disappeared. It had fallen out, it was gone, and she dismissed the matter from her mind. Now she realized the folded paper had been the summons bidding her come to court to defend herself against calumny and to show reason why Martin

Devlin should not be free to take unto himself another wife. Suddenly something very precious died within her, dismally. The excitement of the night dwindled and departed. The piquancy of her adventure drooped and faded. Her interest in a situation that had up to that minute stirred pulse and imagination, shriveled and evaporated. She was weary and bored. She felt disgusted and sick. She wanted to be quit of the whole affair of smiling, alert, complacent Ruthie, of the homely,

clumsy children, of this sleek, fat, selfish man beside her. Ah, she had been a fool ever to think, ever to imagine, a woman of her position, sensible, capable, independent, stout, settled, middle-aged, and gray. Oh, it was detestable, it was humiliating, insufferable. They were at the hotel. You don't want to let what I've told you bother you, Jan. I never stopped to think how you'd feel about it. And you want to remember that those things never get out, and they're all

kept strictly QT. It happened six or seven years ago, and there isn't a soul. Here, I'm coming in with you. You needn't bother, Martin. That's all right. I'll see you inside. They moved through the revolving glass doors and mounted the steps into the brilliant lobby. Well, it's been great to see you. I surely have enjoyed talking over old times. By God, it's been a great evening. Yes, indeed, it's been very amusing. I'm awfully glad you looked me up. And say, Jan,

you like Ruthie, don't you? Don't you think she's a nice little woman? Not your style, exactly. No side or anything like that. But she's a damned agreeable little person, eh? You're not sore at me now, are you, for that rotten trick I played on you? I'd never have done it if it had been up to me. It was the lawyers, you know. They dug up the story and put it over. I'd never have done it. I swear to God, Jan, I wouldn't. I'm sorry as

the devil now. By God, I am. Let's not talk about it, Martin. It's all past and forgotten. Well, that's damned white of you, Jan, damned white. I always said you're a sensible woman. Jeanette turned and held out her hand. Aw, say, Martin protested, aren't you going into the cafe with me and have some ginger ale or something? I hate to say goodnight so soon.

There's a lot of things I want to ask you. I'd like to keep this evening going forever. But Jeanette's one desire was to end it. She wanted her room, to have the door shut and locked behind her, to be alone. I'm sorry, Martin.

Just a small glass of ginger ale, he pleaded. Thank you. No, Martin, I think I'd better go up. Well, am I not to see you again? You're not going until Sunday, are you? I shall be busy tomorrow. I'm engaged all day. How about tomorrow night? I'm not free then either. A frown settled on the man's face. Damn it, he began disgustedly. She continued to smile pleasantly but offered no suggestion. Well, I'll see you in New York sometime soon, he asserted

finally. I have to go up there once in a while. Yes, do that, Jeanette said without enthusiasm. I'll phone you? I'll give you a ring at the office. Yes, do that, she repeated. Well, then I guess I'd better say good night. Good night, Martin. She turned toward the elevators, giving him a nod and a brief smile over her shoulder. As the gate of the cage slid shut, she caught another glimpse of him standing where she had left him, perplexed, frowning,

disconsolate, staring after her. The train was crowded. Jeanette had chosen one at midday, thinking to have her lunch in the dining car and so beguile away part of the tedium of the trip. It was Saturday. She had decided to return home at once rather than wait until Sunday. There was nothing to hold her in Philadelphia, and she was anxious to get back to the little apartment in Waverly Place. Many other travelers had apparently conceived the same idea of having the noon meal on the way,

and Jeanette discovered there were no seats left in the chair car, so she was obliged to share one in a day coach, with a short, plump lady with a prominent bust and short, fat arms, who sat up very straight beside her and wheezed audibly at every breath. Jeanette's heavy suitcase was stowed in front of her and pressed uncomfortably against her knees, while there was no place for her hatbox except in the aisle where it was stumbled over and cursed by every passing passenger. There were cinders embedded in the plush covering of the seat.

The car was badly ventilated and smelled of warm, crowded humanity. At Trenton, feeling dirty and disheveled, she made a swaying progress toward the dining car only to find twenty people ahead of her. Disheartened, she returned to her seat, concluding to wait until she reached the city before she lunched. Perhaps she would go directly home and persuade Beatrice to make her some tea and toast. The day was leaden, the country forlorn and dreary. The trees stood bare and black upon

bare and blackened ground. The houses seemed cold, desolate, and grimy. It began to rain as the train slowed down through smoky Newark, and long diagonal streaks of water slashed the dirty window panes. Waiting travelers on platforms huddled under station sheds or bent their heads and umbrellas against the sharp wind and driving drops as they struggled toward the cars. The train grew steadily more crowded. People stood in the aisles, swayed, and were pitched against those in

the seats. Jeanette's head began to ache dully, and every knock or kick her offending hatbox received, she winced as though struck. In the tube beneath the Hudson River the train came to a standstill, and there was a long wait. Women grew nervous, and a man said in a loud laughing voice to a neighbor, Say, Bill, it'd be some pickings, all right, if the river came in on us while we were stuck here. Jesus, Mary, gasped the woman next to Jeanette, and for some minutes the wheeze of her breathing

rose to a higher key. Finally, with much whirring, jerking, and dancing of lights, the train rolled into the Pennsylvania station. I'll go home and get into bed, and Beatrice will bring me some tea and toast, Jeanette whispered to herself, cramped and weary, fighting the pain in her head that grew steadily worse. She stumbled into a taxi cab and went bumping and racketing down 7th Avenue. The rain was now coming down in a forest of lances and was driven in through the

three-inch opening at the top of one of the windows. Jeanette tried to close it. Her attempt was pitiful. The taxi skidded violently into 8th Street, and she was thrown to her knees, her hat jammed against the opposite side of the car. That's all right, lady, nothing happened, yelled the driver. In five minutes, breathed Jeanette, one hand pressed hard against her breast.

Ah, here she was. Here she was at last. Her fingers shook as she fumbled with the key to the street door. Thank you so much, she said to the taxi driver who brought her bags up to the landing. She handed him his fare. Keep the change. I can manage the rest.

Inside, she grasped her luggage with either hand and resolutely mounted the two long flights of stairs, forcing herself to go to the top without pausing. She was panting, then, her head splitting. She tried the apartment door. It was locked.

Beatrice! Beatrice! She called, rapping impatiently upon the panels. A faint mewing came to her ears. There was no other answer. Oh, God, she's out!

Her cry was almost a sob. Of course, it was still the Thanksgiving vacation. Beatrice would be with her cousins in Plainfield. she wouldn't be home until Sunday night. Jeanette fumbled for her door key. There was little light and she was obliged to kneel before she could find the hole in the lock. With a gasp, she finally

threw open the door and stumbled into the flat. It was cold, unaired, deserted. Mitzi, tail on end, welcomed her with shrill complaining cries. Oh, you baby, you, Jeanette said aloud, blinking through her own distress and eyeing the cat. You've been shut up in here since the day before yesterday, and you're just about starving. Mitzi confirmed this with a wail. Jeanette scooped the animal up with a long arm and carried her into the kitchen. It was cold and bleak in here, too,

smelling foully of Mitzi's incarceration. A groan was wrung from Jeanette's lips. In the icebox she found only a bowl half full of pickled beets, a plate of butter, two rather shriveled bananas, and a few pieces of dried toast. She clapped the kettle on the stove, lighted the gas, and stood caressing the cat until the water had warmed. Then she moistened the toast and set it in a soup plate on the floor. Here, you poor critter, eat that until I get you something decent.

Mitzi leaped at the meal, jerking the food into her mouth, growling gluttonously. Jeanette put her fingers to her head and watched the performance, breathing hard. I must, she said aloud. It won't kill me. She went into her own room, laid aside her fur coat, put on an old Macintosh and felt hat, once more went out into the rain and presently dragged herself up the stairs again with a

bottle of milk and a bag of provisions. Her temples throbbing and little streaks of pain darting through her eyeballs, she moved resolutely through the next few minutes. While the kettle was heating, she got herself into her kimona and braided her hair. Then she returned to the kitchen, mixed a large bowl of bread and milk for the cat, and dutifully made herself tea which she drank, munching between sips some saltine crackers warmed in the oven.

Peace gradually descended upon her. Mitzi, replete and satisfied, licked milk-stained whiskers and eyed her comfortably from the floor. The pain in Jeanette's head was less violent, but she was very cold. I'll get a hot water bottle and go to bed, she said. I think I'll go crazy if I keep on this way.

She proceeded to her room, made her bed, then commenced to unpack her bags and put away her things. When she was about finished, she came upon the fur coat where she had left it on a chair. She picked it up and stared at it, observing its brilliant silk lining, its smooth plushy surface, the soft texture of its fur collar. Suddenly she flung it from her into a far corner on the floor, and for a moment stood a tragic figure with clenched hands, flashing eyes, and heaving breast.

There was a diversion, a sound close at hand that startled her. Mitzi had jumped on the bed and was gazing up at her with head twisted to one side, glassy eyes fixed inquiringly upon her face, long tail alert, the tip waving gently. The cat opened her mouth and mewed plaintively. Jeanette relaxed, gathered the animal into her arms and slowly sank down upon the bed.

Mitzi, nestling comfortably against her, began to purr rhythmically. A slow trembling came to the woman, and her fingers shook as they stroked Mitzi's back. She fought desperately to check the gathering tempest within her, and for a moment struggled with firm pressed lips and shut teeth as the tears welled up in her eyes, rolled down her cheeks and splashed upon her hand.

Then suddenly the floodgates of her heart burst. Grief overwhelmed her, and she sank sideways on the bed, carrying the cat to her neck, cuddling and stroking it, while burying her face against the soft fur and passionately sobbing, Oh, Mitzi! Mitzi! I love you so! I love you so! End of Book Three, Chapter Four, Sections Five through Six Read by Wild Shimmering Path, Los Angeles, December 23, 2021

End of Bread by Charles G. Norris