Kept Woman

Front matter

Kept Woman

Harcourt, Brace and CompanyNew York

Copyright, 1929, by Viña Delmar

Chapter 1

Some one was coming up the walk. It was Hubert. Mrs. Scott saw him and said to her son, "Here comes your father." Her tone was that of one who says, "Everybody has a cross to bear."

Young Hubert selected a magazine from the many upon the table. Mrs. Scott left her cozy chair at the fireplace and seated herself at the desk. She gave herself over to a deep and thorough examination of the telephone bill.

Hubert Scott let himself in with his latch-key and closed the door noisily behind him. He paused in the foyer and as he placed his coat and hat on the bannister rail listened expectantly for his family to greet him. Nobody spoke and after all he was neither surprised nor hurt. Every evening now for nine years he had stood expectantly in the foyer listening for his family to greet him. It was always he who spoke first.

"Hello," he said.

Young Hubert said hello without looking up from his magazine. Mrs. Scott said nothing. The telephone bill was holding her attention.

"It's like a morgue in here. What do you people do all day? Sit around and look wise?"

No answer. Hubert Scott took himself off to the kitchen. He was thirsty and wanted a glass of water. The Scotts had a nice kitchen. Warm and clean. Nellie was basting the roast as he entered.

"Hello, Nellie."

"Good evening, Mr. Scott."

"What are we going to have for dinner, Nellie?" Mr. Scott's voice was loud and jovial. It made Nellie smile.

At a girl, smile," he commanded. "It don't cost a nickel and it makes everybody feel better." Mr. Scott's loud voice had grown louder as though he wanted it to be heard in the living-room. "Smile. People who don't smile once in a while make me sick."

Nellie burst out laughing at his words. Mr. Scott always amused her. "Never did work in a house where there was such a funny man," she thought as she watched Hubert gulp the water. "Lord, you'd think Mrs. Scott would be laughing fit to die all the time."

Mr. Scott set the glass down on the sparkling white drain-board and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "What did you say there was for dinner, Nellie?"

"Roas' beef, Mr. Scott."

"It might be roast beef today but it'll be hash tomorrow."

Nellie found this too amusing to bear with dignity. She leaned weakly against the wall and howled with delight.

Hubert left the kitchen. He would have to go upstairs and tidy himself before dinner. As he passed through the foyer he looked again at his family. They were still sitting as he had seen them last.

"Don't make so much noise," he called to them as he ran upstairs. His wife's room was directly before him on the second floor. He looked in. He always looked in her room. If she didn't want him to look in, she ought to close the door, he reasoned. Hm, something new. He entered the room, treading very softly. At the foot of the bed he paused to admire the strange adornment. Now, what would you call that? A kind of a crown business suspended sort of in space with white net drifting down and forming curtains like on either side of the bed. Pretty. Would you call that a canopy? Gee, Helen got the swellest ideas. He looked about the room. It was the first time in months that he had stepped over the threshold. He remembered the last time. It was when Helen had been ill with pleurisy.

He looked back at the bed with its new ornamentation. He chuckled. It was a good thing that he didn't sleep in that bed any more. He'd look funny as hell snoozing under a bunch of white net. That yellow lamp there in back of the couch was pretty.

He continued to stand in the center of the room thinking idle thoughts as one makes polite and pointless conversation. It seemed he was waiting for something. It came. Helen walked in. She was surprised to see him. Her brows rose in question.

"I was just looking at that," he explained pointing to the bed. "It's pretty."

"Do you like it?"

"Sure. It's swell. I like that lamp in back of the couch, too."

"In back of— Oh, in back of the chaise longue."

"Yeh. Where did you buy that?"

"It was given to me for my birthday."

"Oh. Well, I guess I'd better be washing up for dinner."

Helen did not reply. She seated herself at the vanity table and began to cold-cream her face with the upward-outward gesture prescribed for ladies past forty who care about their looks.

Hubert went to his own room. It was small but it had three windows and the furniture was comfortable. Helen had attended to the furnishings. He remembered that she had worked very hard to make that room attractive to him. She had been awfully nice about that.

He wondered if he ought to shave. He went to the mirror and turned his cheek to the glass. At the same moment he rubbed his hand over the bristles, thus making it impossible for him to see whether or not he needed a shave. He decided that he could get by another day. Besides it was foolish to shave when there wasn't going to be any company. He guessed he would have to change his shirt. This one was pretty dirty. Well, no, not so dirty at that. He looked in the mirror again. The shirt was all right. What the hell! He'd wash his face and hands and clean his nails and that would be enough. He went down the hall to the bathroom. The door was locked but frequently it stuck and Hubert thought this was one of the times. He turned the knob and forced himself against the door.

Helen's voice, frigid with disdain, came from within. "Would you like an ax?" she asked.

He didn't answer. He went downstairs and washed his hands at the kitchen sink and afterwards dried them on the roller towel which hung on the pantry door. He was ready for dinner.

Helen was not down yet. Nellie was holding dinner for her arrival. Hubert strolled into the living-room. His son was still deep in the magazine, having now actually found something of genuine interest.

"Well, my boy—" said Hubert, pleasantly, "how did you spend the day?"

"Not very strenuously," returned his boy, still reading.

"Well, I had a very strenuous day. I sold my business today!"

"Yeh?" asked young Hubert, turning a page and instantly fastening his eyes on the new column of print.

"Yes, I sold my business. I'm through. From now on I'm a gentleman of leisure."

As he spoke Helen came down the stairs, and passing him, flung open the doors between the living- and dining-room.

"Dinner is on the table," she said.

Her husband and son followed her. They took their places at the table, and Hubert, tucking his napkin beneath his chin, demanded, "Did you hear that, Helen? I sold my business."

"I heard several days ago that you were going to," she said.

"Who told you?"

"You did."

"I beg your pardon. I haven't mentioned a thing about it."

"Oh, don't let's argue. From seven until ten one night you held forth on what you were going to do when the business was sold. You were going to the South Seas for the fishing, you were going to sleep every day till noon, you were going to dabble a bit in the stock market and buy a couple of automobiles, and just as you began to debate with yourself on the advisability of taking lessons in aviation I fell asleep."

"So did I," added young Hubert.

Hubert Senior said nothing. It really did seem as though he had told them something of his plans. He watched Helen in silence. She was filling the vegetable dishes with creamed carrots. He liked the way she did it. Tidily and swiftly. She was not looking at him. Neither was young Hubert; so he could look at his wife if he chose. She looked pretty good. Her hair was white though. Of course that always made a person look old. He ran his hand contentedly through his own reddish hair. He hadn't a bit of gray and he was a year older than Helen. Funny that she didn't dye her hair. You'd think she would. Silly how she rubbed ice on her face and dieted and went through all kinds of maneuvers to keep looking young and then let her hair get white. Well, it wasn't his business.

Her eyes, gray green and cold like the winter ocean, met his as she offered him a dish of carrots. He took it and said, "Thank you." Helen said nothing. She wanted to speak to him but could think of nothing that would fit the occasion. She knew he was tingling with excitement and full of his own importance. He felt like a great business man tonight and a sudden wave of sympathy made her want to be kind and give him a chance to talk about himself. Her eyes lingered on him and she thought how fat he was getting and how careless. His shirt looked as though it had been worn a week and surely that was a three days' growth of beard on his face. His nails were dirty. He used to keep them clean. But that was during their courting days. She had loved his wild, red hair and the fact that he never had a serious moment. He had wanted to play and laugh all the time and she had loved his gay irresponsibility. Ho hum. She had learned later that his gay irresponsibility and desire to eternally play was only a lack of ability to think. He was so stupid, so dull. Even his lies were not entertaining and his humor, Helen had observed, was hugely appreciated by Nellie and the butcher boy. But he had been attractive once and was even now, except for his untidiness, quite pleasant to look at. He had a young face. It was very red but there were laughter wrinkles about the eyes which gave a wholesome, jolly appearance to the face. He looked like a husky, happy peasant. Yes, it was a young face. It occurred to Helen that an incapacity for thought preserved youth better than ice and massage. Halfwits, she recalled, always looked younger than normal people who ponder problems and worry about the future. His eyes were a bright blue and they were looking at her now. She spoke to her husband sweetly, warmly, as though to a child who proudly brings home a toy which he has made with his very own hands.

"How much did you make them give you for the business, Hubert?"

He smiled happily. Here was his moment. Curiosity had gotten the better of her highfalutin airs. He'd show her.

"Wouldn't you love to know?" he parried.

Stupid ass! Helen eyed him coldly. "No," she answered. "I wouldn't. I don't care. I was just making conversation because I know you are dying to talk about yourself. Now, you can go talk to Nellie."

"Is that so? Say, there are people a hell of a sight smarter than you who listen to me talk. What's more, you'd never guess what I did get for the business."

Young Hubert laughed. Helen turned away from him. He looked like his father when he laughed. The same wrinkles about the eyes and the same silly, uncontrolled note of hysteria. There was consolation in remembering however that at twenty he was more intelligent and sophisticated than his father was at forty-two. His hair was red but correctly smooth and barbered. Behind his blue, Scott eyes there was a Dietz brain and Helen had learned that it was the brain that mattered.

She carved two more slices off the roast. Hubert passed his empty plate to her and she re-filled it. As she gave him his second helping of mashed potatoes she turned to her son. He was lighting a cigarette. "Don't you want something more?" she asked.

"No. I wasn't hungry tonight."

"No, you weren't. Well, if you're finished—" She rose and moved with a carefully acquired grace into the living-room. Her son followed her. Hubert was left behind with his well-filled plate and the mingled fragrances of his wife's perfume and his son's cigarette.

Those two sure thought they were the bee's hips. Where did they get off, treating him like that? They were Dietzes all right. The pair of them. Old Man Dietz had always taken a high and mighty air. From the way he had acted any one would have thought that Helen was a queen or something. He was dead now. Hubert was glad of it. Although the old man had had his decent streak of course. He had set his son-in-law up in business and hadn't raised much hell when the business failed. He'd left Helen quite a bit of cash. Hubert never did know just what he had left. It had been plenty though. Helen had staked her husband to a new start. She'd put him up in business again and he'd paid her back every cent. Yes, sir, every cent. He owed her nothing. She'd let him know it if he owed her any thing. She was a great one about money. Hubert had heard here and there that Helen had doubled her in heritance by clever investments. Well, she could go to hell. He had money himself. Fifteen thousand dollars he had. That was pretty good, fifteen thousand dollars. Jim Hayden was talking through his hat when he said that Hubert should have gotten twenty-five thousand. Why, the McKay brothers were friends of his. They were good fellows. Brother Elks, in fact. When they offered him fifteen thousand dollars he knew it was a fair price. He took it. Thank God, he still believed that there were square-shooters in this world. He wasn't the kind who thought that everybody was trying to rob him. He was a good fellow, too, same as the McKay brothers.

He finished his dinner and folded his napkin. Nellie came in and began to clear away the plates. At the sight of her Hubert experienced an overpowering desire to show somebody just how good a fellow he was. He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a creased and grimy dollar bill. "There you are, Nellie," he said, flinging the dollar bill across the table to her. "Don't spend it all in one place."

He walked to the living-room then and stood at the fireplace staring down at the chunk of cannel coal that threw a satisfactory amount of heat and good cheer. Helen was reading a book. Young Hubert had gone upstairs.

The telephone rang. Helen waited a moment to see if her son would take the call on the extension. The bell rang again and she walked to the phone table in the foyer. Hubert gathered from her conversation that Mrs. Winters was on the wire and that Mrs. Winters and an unknown party were coming to play bridge.

Hubert decided to go out. He had something to celebrate tonight. Hell, what was he going to do here with a bridge game going on? He regarded Mrs. Winters as an intruder. Now where could he go? He felt like doing something exciting. He'd call up Carl Feldman. Carl was a wild bird. He was always talking about the places he went. They sounded like hot places, too. That's what he'd do. He'd call Carl Feldman.

He couldn't call him from here of course. He wouldn't want Helen to hear him making the arrangements. He could go upstairs to call, only she might listen in. Wives were like that.

He put on his coat. Now, should he telephone to the taxi office for a cab or should he walk all the way down to the village? Suburbs were awful sometimes. He'd have to get himself a car. A good car. But he'd have to park it in the village anyhow. The house only had a two-car garage and Helen had two cars. A sudden idea struck him.

"Say," he shouted exultantly at Helen.

"Yes?"

"Will you sell me your Packard?"

"No."

"Why not? I'll pay you as much as anybody else would for it."

"But I don't want to sell it."

"You don't need it. You got the Oakland. Oh, go ahead, Helen."

"No, I don't want to sell it."

He frowned at her but she didn't yield. He watched her eyes return to the printed page, yet he lingered. He had a feeling that the last word hadn't been said on the subject.

Presently she looked up at him. "I'll tell you what," she said. "You can take the car. I don't use it much but I like it. I don't want to sell it. Use it as often and as much as you like but don't forget that you don't own it."

"Well, say, I have money."

"Keep it. Use the car if you like but I won't sell it to you."

Hubert wasn't sure whether to say that that was nice of her or not. He suspected some catch in the deal.

"Why won't you sell it to me?" he asked craftily.

"Because I don't want to. Do be satisfied, Hubert. Take it and use it or don't."

"I'll take it," he sighed.

"All right. There's no jack in the tool chest. Take the one out of the Oakland."

"O.K. Thanks, Helen."

He was just leaving the foyer when the phone rang again. Helen swept past him and answered it. "It's for you," she said unexpectedly.

It was Carl Feldman.

"Say, Scott, I hear you sold your business."

"Yeh."

"To the McKay Brothers, huh?"

"Yeh."

"That's great. I couldn't hardly believe it though. I had to call you up to make sure."

"Yeh, I sold it."

"Tired of working hard, eh?"

"That's right."

"Well, gee, that's great. I couldn't hardly believe it though."

"Yeh, I sold it at two o'clock today."

"To the McKay Brothers, eh?"

"Yeh. I got tired of working hard."

"Ha ha. So you sold the business, eh? Well, that's great. I couldn't hardly believe it though. I had to call you up to make sure. Well, good luck, Scott, I just thought I'd give you a ring."

"Say, Carl, what are you doing tonight?"

"Going out with May."

"Oh, yeh? Say, where are you going?"

"We're not sure yet."

"You're not, eh? Well, I just thought you weren't doing anything."

"Yeh. Well, I'm going out with May."

"Oh, I see. Well, if you ain't going any place special maybe I could tag along with you."

"May ain't got a girl friend."

"Well, I don't mind. I'll just mooch along."

"Well, you see we mightn't do anything at all much."

"Oh, I don't mind that. Don't worry about me."

"Well, I'll ask May if she can dig up another girl. I'll call you back if she can."

"Oh, don't do that. Say, I'll stop over at your house in about fifteen minutes."

"You can't get here, Scott, without a car. It's a long walk and there's no bus over this way."

"I got a car."

"Oh, have you? Well, I guess then I'll see you in about fifteen minutes. 'Bye, Scott."

Bye, old man, see you right away."

Hubert hung up the receiver and turned toward the living-room. His son had come downstairs during the conversation and was industriously setting up the bridge table and arranging ash trays and chairs.

"Funny thing," Hubert announced from the foyer. "A fellow that Carl Feldman and I have known for years has just come in town from Columbus, Ohio, and Carl thinks it would be nice if we three fellows went to a show or something tonight. Maybe we'll have something to eat afterwards. You know, a little quiet stag party. I won't be late. 'Night."

"Good night," answered young Hubert and his mother.

Hubert Senior went out the back door to the garage. He was thinking of Carl Feldman and his May. Now that was a nice way to live. Like Carl did. He had a girl who appreciated him and understood him and was always ready for anything. Of course they weren't married, but Carl was good to her. Hubert played with the notion of himself having a girl friend who would be like May only better-looking. Why not? Gee, he wasn't treated right at home and he had money enough to do what he liked. Fifteen thousand dollars was a lot of money. Well, if a nice girl came his way, he'd certainly consider the whole thing. After all, plenty of good fellows were doing the same thing all over the world.

He climbed into the Packard and stepped on the starter.

Chapter 2

"Hello, hello, oh, for God's sake, Central, I have my party. Get off the line. May, this is Carl. Listen, honey, we can't go to Florence's house tonight. Can you call her up and get out of it?"

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing, but listen, baby, Hubert Scott—you know the fellow I introduced you to that day in the drug store?—well, he's attached himself to us for the evening."

"Oh, for Pete's sake, why didn't you tell him we had a date?"

"It wouldn't have done a bit of good. His mind was made up. Do you think maybe we could bring him down to Florence's with us?"

"Gee, I'd sooner call the date off than do that, Carl. You know Florence don't like strangers."

"Yeh, that's right. Well, you can call it off for tonight, huh?"

"We'll have to, I suppose. Gee, this is going to be a great evening!"

"Oh, Hubert's all right, May. He don't know much, but he's a good sport. He'd give you anything you asked for. He's big-hearted like that."

"But what will we do with him?"

"Well, I was gonna ask you. Can you get another girl, do you think?"

"Now who could I get?"

"How about your sister?"

"No, I don't know this guy well enough. He might try to make her; then she'd go home yelling to Mama and I'd get killed."

"How about Hazel Schultz?"

"Gee, Carl, your suggestions are great. Hazel Schultz would just be the one to dance with some fat fool, wouldn't she? Can you imagine Hazel with Scott? That's funny, that is."

"Well, maybe she is too high-hat, but then why not ask Muriel Kahn?"

"Carl, she wouldn't come. Muriel isn't the sort to go out with a strange fellow just 'cause I ask her to."

"Jesus, May, you can think of more arguments. You'll have to dance with Scott yourself then once or twice if you won't ask any of your girl friends. I don't like the poor goop to be insulted."

"Oh, wait, Carl, there's a girl who works in the handkerchiefs that I know kind of well. I got her address yet from my Christmas card list. She ain't bad and, see, I don't care enough about her to worry whether he's fresh or dumb or anything. I'll call her up. Her name is Lillian Cory."

Chapter 3

Five-thirty p.m. in the subway. Lillian Cory standing on the platform of a northbound train holding her elbow at just the right angle for stabbing a swarthy gentleman who had discovered that with every lurch of the train he could fall blissfully against Lillian's soft body. She was tightly wedged between him and a large fur-coated woman. The woman had been shopping. She had many packages and kept announcing that they would be crushed if "people" weren't careful. Lillian knew that she was the "people" to whom the woman had reference. It was clearly indicated that it would be greatly appreciated if Lillian would move closer to the swarthy gentleman.

"To hell with you, Kate," thought Lillian, eyeing the fur-coated woman. "Whatever you're getting crushed there can be replaced. It's different with me."

At Seventy-Second Street the fur coat and the packages left the train. There was a second's breathing-space before the crowds from the local came pushing into the Broadway express. Lillian found herself in the center of the car. Each new passenger had forced her a few steps farther from her original stand on the platform. In her new location Lillian arranged her cape and hat and looked about. Well, at least the swarthy gentleman had been left behind. There was now a fat, pompous fellow at her left holding his fist an inch away from her eye as he stood with his Evening World widespread. There ought to be a law against reading anything but tabloids in the subway during rush-hour. At her right was an unobtrusive little wisp of a man who was holding to a white enamel loop and chewing gum. Behind her was an elderly gentleman who leaned against her. He meant no harm. He was just resting.

At Ninety-Sixth Street there was a mild flutter in the car. Two ladies got out and four flappers sat down. Nothing occurred that changed Lillian Cory's position. She continued to hang on to her own particular enamel loop. Her hand looked strange and unrelated to her as it grasped the support. It looked small up there and whiter than it looked all day when it was searching through squares of linen, lawn, cambric, and silk for "something with a red border, did you say? But aren't these monograms sweet? Very new. Smart, you see, with just the edge showing above the pocket."

Lillian's eyes roved along the line of advertisements above her head. Gentlemen were invited to change to Reis underwear, wear Paris garters, and suck a Zymole Trokey after the football game. Ladies were charged to remember Pompeian Rouge and Powder brought instant beauty. Taste it, it's Ward's. Chesterfields—they satisfy. Because she likes nice things. It's smart to be thrifty. Maxwell House Coffee—good to the last drop. A skin you love to touch.

The sickening swaying of the train. The strained, yellow lights. The persistent, musty underground odor.

One Hundred and Third Street. Nobody moved. The passengers ignored One Hundred and Third Street. Lillian gloomily searched the faces of those lucky enough to be sitting down. She wondered if a fellow would be mean enough to ride past his station just to keep somebody else standing. Thoughts like that come to you during rush-hour in the subway.

A woman began to fuss with the two bushes of hair that showed beneath her hat. Perhaps she was preparing to get out at One Hundred and Tenth Street. If she did, the one standing nearest would get the vacant seat. Lillian nearly upset the little wisp of a man in her rush to get close to the woman who was now examining her face in a pocket mirror. The train drew in to One Hundred and Tenth Street and sped away from it. The woman remained seated and continued to study her face. She was still seated and busily regarding her nails when Lillian left the train at Dyckman Street.

The subway is an elevated at Dyckman Street. Lillian had to walk down to street level. She did it slowly and with a hint of condescension in her bearing. Once out of the subway crush, one can become a lady again.

A few doors off Dyckman Street on Nagel Avenue there was a florist's shop. The window drew Lillian's attention as she crossed the street. Chrysanthemums. Conventional yellows and tawny burnished shades. Lillian suddenly wanted a chrysanthemum. She wasn't particularly fond of flowers, but the chrysanthemums looked smug and expensive. She felt challenged. As though somebody had said, "You couldn't afford those."

Lillian opened her purse and gazed hopefully into the fold where she kept her money. One dollar and twelve cents. The chrysanthemums were probably fifty cents apiece. That would be all right.

She opened the door of the florist's shop and walked in.

"I want a chrysanthemum," she said. "One of the reddish ones. How much are they?"

"A dollar."

"All right."

She went out wearing pinned upon the collar of her cape a chrysanthemum. There was more condescension in her bearing now as she walked up Dyckman Street. Girls who passed her gazed admiringly at the flower. It made Lillian chuckle silently. Nobody in the world except herself knew that she only had the chrysanthemum because she hadn't the nerve to retrench when the florist had named its price.

She crossed Post Avenue and continued on her way. At Sherman she paused to look in a milliner's window. Cute hat. Lillian squinted her eyes and examined the stitching around the quill. Cheap-looking. Oh, there was the tag. Three ninety-eight. No wonder. You couldn't get a really good hat under five. Lillian resumed her stroll up Dyckman Street. At Vermilyea Avenue she turned. There was only one way to turn. Like Post Avenue, Vermilyea begins at Dyckman Street.

A few doors from the fire-house Lillian paused and fumbled in her purse for the key. There were children jumping rope directly in front of the entrance of her house. Lillian wondered how she could get through. She wouldn't ask them to move. Lillian was afraid of children. If they became vexed they sometimes shouted things at you and made you conspicuous. She continued to sift the contents of her bag through her fingers even after she had found the key. Maybe one of the children would miss and the rope would be quiet while the jumper became a turner.

"Wait a minute. Let the lady pass."

The rope flopped helplessly on the ground and Lillian stepped across it, smiling sunnily at the children as she did so. She wasn't sure which child had pleaded her case, but she was grateful to them all.