Detour (12 page)

I didn't love the man, didn't care whether I ever saw him again or not, but I couldn't let Selma give me “warnings”. I
would
see Raoul again. I
would
go out with him, if only to show her I refused to be bossed.

“You mind your own business,” I said through closed teeth. “I'll go out with him whenever I like. And if it burns you up, all the better.”

“You'll be sorry.”

I laughed in her face .

But later that night as I lay in bed alongside of Ewy, I began to consider the things Selma had accused me of being. Was I mean and hard? No, of course I wasn't. What an idea! I was always feeling sorry for someone and doing things for people I didn't really have to do. I want to get ahead, but I was certainly not the ruthless type.

That got me wondering. I began to ask myself what things wouldn't I do to land a contract. A whole flock of things came into my head at first—because I am essentially a decent person, even if I am ambitious. Nevertheless, after I weighed them honestly and balanced them opposite a fat part, they weeded out and the list gradually kept shrinking.

I wouldn't sell my body, of course—or would I? That was a disgusting thought and one I would have preferred to dismiss; but, well, would I or not? The truthful answer: I would. It would be a loathsome ordeal and I would hate every minute of it, but it would be over in no time and there were always some sacrifices a girl must make for the sake of her art. But only if the man was thin and youngish. I can't stand fat men...such as Manny Fleishmeyer.

What else wouldn't I do? There wasn't much, frankly. I was dead earnest about my film career, and the obstacles I would have to encounter did not bother me half as much as the thought that I might never have the opportunity to meet one of them. As yet there was not even a glimmer of hope ahead. In the final analysis, about the only thing I most certainly would not do was kill someone.

But that did not necessarily imply I was stepping on anyone by going out with Raoul—except poor Alex, who, after all, knew nothing about it. Raoul in no way affected my intended career. He wasn't a big enough figure to be able to help me. Good night, the way Selma talked one would think he was a star or an important executive, instead of a mere bit-player! All that threw me off on to the subject of Mr. Kildare. I commenced to wonder what he was thinking of the whole thing. Had he mentioned me to Selma when she visited him? Was he very angry? Was he injured—his pride, I mean? Was he in love with Selma? She with him? Or he with me? It was rather amusing to consider how very little I knew about the man who had attempted to kill himself because of me. I knew his name. But that was about all.

This business about being in love with me: I hadn't taken it into consideration before. While loads of men at one time or another have fallen in love with me—chiefly because I wanted them to—Raoul had displayed no visible sign that he was smitten. I remembered his attitude and grew a little provoked. I decided he was too conceited to care anything about anyone except himself. He was the kind who told a girl “I love you” just to hear the sound of his voice; and when she believed him and he got his way he went home later on and patted himself on the back, thinking what a great lover he was and how Casanova could have learned plenty from him.

There are a great many men like that. However, sometimes they get caught in their own trap. They try to be so convincing in their lives that they finally succeeded in convincing even themselves; and when eventually they wake up they are either married or in trouble. As for myself, I am also of the type easily carried away by props, dialogue and special effects. If there is a romantic background, a handsome man with a good line, and nothing to distract me—like phones ringing or magazine salesmen coming to the door—I'm apt to think I'm in love. The feeling only lasts momentarily, but very often that moment or two is all the fellow needs. I wish I had been made differently.

However, with Raoul I never for an instant fancied myself in love. He had made no effort to woo me that way. It had been straightforward sex, brought about by a quantity of inferior rye which he had fed me as rapidly as I could down it. There had been no lies, however sweet to hear, nothing at all to which I could cling later as an excuse for what we did. The man hadn't even tried to persuade me with the wild, Hollywoodish philosophy, stolen from the
Rubaiyat
and translated into slang. He had gone about the task of seducing me as simply and as matter-of-factly as a surgeon taking out a patient's tonsils. The thing that puzzled me though was why the patient hadn't struggled.

But mat was beside the point. It had nothing to do with the grave issue at hand. Since I am a believer in that old adage about burying the past before it buries you, I wanted to wash my hands of the whole affair. But first there was a lot to be ironed out. I couldn't go on and let the poor devil kill himself because of anything to do with me. Fun is fun. It ends there.

So at the risk of having him refuse to see me, I made up my mind to go to the hospital in the morning. I'd go early, to avoid running into Selma. I wasn't afraid of her in any sense of the word—I just didn't like her—but running into her might cause a scene. I'd bring some flowers along with me too, as a peace offering. I'd scrape together a few dollars for carnations or chrysanthemums and to hell with mother this week. Mother could wear her fall suit a little while longer. Raoul was far more important at the moment. He was probably in pain. While it wasn't exactly my fault that he was suffering (he was a grown man and if he wanted to be crazy it was his business), I
felt
somewhat guilty Selma had guessed that much correctly.

This settled, I poked Ewy in the ribs. I hated to awaken her, but I never hear alarms when I want to hear them. She sat up in bed.

“Now what?”

“Oh, are you awake, Ewy?”

“I wasn't, until you jabbed your fist into me!”

“Did I? Oh, I'm sorry. Go back to sleep, honey. I'll be careful next time I rollover .”

“See that you do. My god, have a little consideration!”

“Well, no sense getting angry about it. I said I was sorry, didn't I?”

“All right. Only shut up.”

“Good night.”

“Umm.”

“And Ewy...”

“Well, what is it now?”

“Will you get me up when you leave for work tomorrow?”

“I'll do my best. Good night.”

“Be sure I get up, will you? It's important.”

“All right.”

“Well, good night, Ewy. Sleep tight.”

She didn't answer me.

Even after having made that decision I tossed around in bed for hours. I made three not-very-necessary trips to the bathroom, reading a fifteen minute
Liberty
story and a short note from Ewy to the effect that Mr. Fleishmeyer called and wanted to know if I had died, and that due to a horse named Black Brigand, Ewy would be two dollars short on the grocery fund this week. I felt uneasy in my mind and I kept seeing Raoul's face before me. At one moment he would be kissing me and, at the next, balancing himself on top of one of the letters in the sign H-O-L-L-Y-W-O-O-D. I caught myself spelling the word over and over again. H-O-L-L-Y-W-O-O-D. It didn't put me to sleep, like counting sheep jumping over a fence; it kept me awake. At length I sat up and felt on the night-table for my package of cigarettes. Lighting one, I held the match close to the battered face of the clock on the floor beside the bed. It was four-thirteen. I propped the pillow up behind my back, drew the covers under my knees and sat there smoking until dawn. I just couldn't sleep.

It is going to be extremely difficult to describe my visit to the hospital the next day. This is because the whole thing remains vague to me. I found out two things which absolutely astonished me, so for the greater part of the half hour I was in a fog. When I finally came out of the place I crossed Fountain Avenue and looked for the nearest bar. I needed a drink and needed one badly. For not only did I find out what was going on in Raoul's mind, I found out what was hidden in mine.

It will always remain a mystery to me: how we can go along blissfully from day to day, never realizing things which have happened to us. Why we can't detect feelings that are new without having the roof fall in suddenly is the craziest unanswerable question of nature. Have you ever been surprised at yourself? It is a funny feeling. We are so sure we know our inner selves, yet very often we are quite different. Sometimes I think that other people—even comparative strangers—know us better than we know ourselves. But all this must sound silly. I'll try to relate what happened.

When a nurse ushered me into his room he was sitting up in bed, reading a book. He looked a mess, all right. His head was swathed in bandages and his left arm was in splints. All a person could see of his face was the small area from his mouth to his eyebrows, the rest was gauze and adhesive. The nurse left us alone, for which I was grateful. I didn't know how he would receive me; if he threw the book at me it was just as well we had no audience.

“Hello, Raoul. I... I heard you had an accident and.... well, I've come to see how you are getting along. I... I was passing in the neighborhood so I thought... er...”

I was frightfully uncomfortable. There didn't seem anything to say. His head was still facing front and he had not dropped the book, but even so his eyes were on me. He didn't have to speak. I saw quite clearly that he was greatly surprised to see me, then annoyed, and then ashamed. The visible portion of his face grew as red as his lips.

I came over to the bedside, holding out my hand. Slowly, he lifted his good arm and shook it. I don't know which one of us had the wet palm but I suspect it was me. Yes, he was suffering—but so was I, and every bit as much. All he was facing was a woman who had insulted his manhood; I was facing an over-sensitive boy I had almost killed. I was frightened and embarrassed and at a total loss where to begin to rectify things. The point had been reached where I could no longer pooh-pooh the notion that what he had attempted was due to quite another matter. Everything indicated I was to blame.

“How are you feeling?”

“Oh, I'm all right.”

“You're not in pain?”

“No not much.”

“Is your arm broken?”

“Just dislocated.”

I was feeding him lines, like in a play, anyone of which might be the cue for his replying, “What do you care, you selfish bitch?” I half expected to hear that each time he opened his mouth.

Just then the nurse entered with a vase and arranged my flowers in water. “Aren't they beautiful, Mr. Kildare?” she asked, taking them over to a little table by the side of the bed. Raoul looked at them absently for a moment; I don't believe he even saw them.

“Yes. Very. Thanks.”

“Oh, it's nothing. When do you imagine they'll let you go home?”

“Home?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Oh, I don't know. In a few days. Maybe a week.”

We both fell silent and there was a tension you could all but hear. I began to fidget with my gloves, my bag and a thread that was loose on his bedspread. Although we were facing each other our eyes did not meet. What, I asked myself, could a person say in a situation like this? I was wishing I hadn't come. If only he would get on his high horse, curse at me and demand an apology it would be a relief. Or if only he took revenge by commenting upon
my
qualifications in the dark! But no. He sat there saying nothing, looking whipped and very ill at ease.

“You're looking well,” I said, when I couldn't stand it any longer. I didn't realize how ridiculous that remark was until later. There he was in a hospital, literally covered with bandages!

“Thanks. You're looking well yourself.”

“Thanks. ”

“Not at all.”

Another long silence. The noises of the hospital crashed in my ears and I decided then and there that no sound is louder and more disturbing than that of persons taking pains to be quiet. Then, suddenly driven to make conversation, we both started to say something at once. Then we both stopped and politely waited. God, it was terrible. In desperation and before a series of you-first-my-dear-Alphonse could commence, I held out my hand. “I've really got to run along now, Raoul. I'm on my way to an appointment. Just thought I'd stop by and tell you I am sorry for what I said the other night. I didn't mean it, of course. I must have been high.”

He didn't flush this time. He merely dropped his eyes.

“Oh, that's all right. It doesn't matter now.”

There was a hopelessness in his voice that worried me no end. Was he going to try it over again when he got discharged from the hospital? He answered that question himself a second later in reply to my, “Well, I hope I'll see you again very soon.”

“I don't think it's likely. I expect to leave for New York immediately. I have a chance for a nice part in the new Harris production that's going into rehearsal this month.”

I can't begin to tell you how relieved I was to hear that. At once all nervousness left me and I came back to his bedside from the door. “But that's marvelous, Raoul! It's a break to work for Harris. He's the biggest man on Broadway.”

“Oh, I haven't got it yet. I'm only going on spec.”

“You'll get it, all right,” I said encouragingly. “I've seen your work. You've got loads of talent.”

He thanked me quietly, but as though I had only told him something he already knew. However, the attitude was empty. Every trace of conceit and his former armor of braggadocio had vanished in him; a person could scarcely recognize Raoul Kildare in the meek, easily embarrassed figure on the bed. If my words had stripped him of his manhood, they had also taken his self-confidence and his poise. I realized instinctively that my brief apology would never restore all this. The only thing to do was to get to the bottom of it.

“Raoul,” I said, despite the fact that I have always been one never to arouse the sleeping dogs, “will you tell me why...”

“Yes?” His voice came as a dare.

“Why you did it?”

He frowned in displeasure for a minute. Then, as his face cleared, I saw the answer. You
can
see those things, you know—if you'll only look. But what was immediately so plain almost floored me, and inside my head everything became hopelessly jumbled. I dropped my bag on the floor, stooped, picked it up, and then I dropped it again. I was
that
flustered.