# Kept Woman/Chapter 19

Lillian met the first of August alone. Hubert had spent the preceding night with his wife and son. He had felt that he really ought to do it. Helen's aunt from Wheeling was visiting and he thought it only decent to put in an appearance at least once. Helen hadn't asked him to, but that was probably because she thought him extremely busy. She'd be tickled to death at his thoughtfulness.
Lillian fished the electric bill out of the mail-box and met the rent collector on the stairs as she returned to her own apartment.
"How do you do, Mrs. Cory," he said pleasantly. "I'll get to you in about fifteen minutes. Will you be in?"
"Yes, I'll be in, but I—my husband is out and he forgot to leave the rent."
"Oh, I see. What time will he be back?"
"Not till late. After dinner."
"Around seven?"
"Eight's more like it."
"Well, I'll stop around about eight-thirty."
The rent collector marked a memorandum on his little pad. Lillian walked past him and up the stairs. Her cheeks felt hot and she was breathless. The rent collector would be back that evening. Suppose Hubert ​didn't have the money? He could get it, of course. If worst came to worst he could probably borrow from somebody. But very likely he wouldn't have it that evening. That would mean another visit from the collector. That was a disgrace. Lillian had been reared to believe that nothing was more disgraceful than not having one's rent on the first of the month. She remembered Mrs. Egan—a dim shadow from out of her childhood. Mrs. Egan had never had her rent on the first. One month the rent collector had come eleven times. Lillian remembered because her mother had spoken of it later.
Oh, if the landlord only knew Hubert! If he only realized that Hubert was not the same as his other tenants. Thirty-five dollars was nothing to him. The rent was ridiculously small. Only just now, of course, there was a little slump in Hubert's fortunes. She wondered if she could write well enough to convey to the landlord some inkling of Hubert's real status. How he had given money away like nothing. How he would soon be able to do so again. She sat at her window looking down into the hot street and wondering what sort of person the landlord was. Probably an impossible sort who would be more impressed by regular payment of that insignificant rent than by anything she could say of Hubert.
The sun glittered on the pavement and women rocked baby-carriages and fanned themselves and talked. Children fell and their mothers spanked them. Across the street there was another woman sitting at her window looking at the doings on the street. Lillian wondered if that woman had her rent ready to hand the collector. If she hadn't she could sell that ring that the sun kept ​picking out to glisten upon. It seemed pretty big. But of course from a distance one couldn't tell, and maybe it was a fake.
Oh! Lillian suddenly thought of something. She raised her hand and examined the ring which Hubert had given her almost two years before. It had twenty diamonds, but they were very small. Still they looked like good diamonds, and there were those four strips of sapphire. It must be worth something. It was impossible for her to make a guess at its value. At different times she had appraised it all the way from fifty dollars to five hundred. At any rate she could certainly get thirty-five for it, and that would see the rent paid. And paid this evening. She hated to part with the ring. She was fond of it. Still, the hot months of inactivity and bad business would soon be over. In the autumn things would loosen up, business men would become brisk and wide awake. They would take on other men to help them meet the prosperous money-spending months. Hubert could get a position then and he would buy her another ring. Maybe a better one.
Lillian decided not to sell the ring unless the pawning value was too small. She had to have thirty-five dollars. Even a little more would be handy. There was the electric bill and always the little matter of eating.
She wished that she had her Nash. She hated to use the subway on a hot day like this. It would be so convenient to dash down in the roadster. But then if she had the roadster, she remembered, there would be no occasion for going downtown today.
She felt that there really must be pawn-shops on One ​Hundred and Twenty-Fifth Street. In reconsidering the matter, however, she decided that she would go farther downtown. There was a greater possibility of meeting some one she knew in Harlem.
On Eighth Avenue in the Forties Lillian found pawn-shops. She was diffident about entering. What did you say to the man? Did you have to have proof that the article really belonged to you?
She stood before one shop for several minutes, pretending to admire the display of stringed instruments. Actually she was waiting for a moment when there would be nobody passing. It would be awful to have people staring at her as she walked into a pawn-shop. People continued to pass. Inside the shop the pawnbroker watched Lillian, though he seemed to be tinkering with the inside of a wrist watch. Acquainted with the foibles and follies of human nature, the pawnbroker knew what Lillian was waiting for. He in turn waited for her to realize that people would pass his shop all day in endless procession.
At last he heard the door open. He looked up at her as she advanced toward the counter.
"Hot, isn't it?" he said unexpectedly.
"I should say so," Lillian returned. She slipped the ring off her finger and laid it before him. She began to giggle. The pawnbroker was not surprised. Many people laughed and asked just as she asked, carelessly and just as though it didn't matter, "How much can I get for that—fifteen cents?"
He looked at her as he reached for the ring. Plump, shabby, too much makeup. Pretty anyhow and young. ​Not an actress. Not a bum. He couldn't place her and he was annoyed.
He peered at the ring through the jeweler's glass. "Hm," he said, "what are those?"
"What?" asked Lillian in alarm.
"The blue things."
"Sapphires."
"Yeh? Well, I'm not so young any more. I can't keep up with everything. I suppose they're a new kind of sapphire."
"Maybe," said Lillian innocently.
"They look like glass to me."
"Oh," she said. "The diamonds are all right, aren't they?"
For answer he tossed the ring on the round rubber pad. "I'll give you fifty dollars," he said. "I'm a fool to do it, but maybe it'll change my luck. Business is rotten in the heat."
He gave Lillian fifty dollars in five-dollar bills. She turned to walk out then, but he called her back.
"Don't you expect to redeem it?" he asked.
"What?"
"Don't you expect to get it out any more?"
"Yes. Sure I do. Why?"
"You'll need a ticket."
He made the ticket out for her with a large 50 on it in indelible ink. "Here," he said.
"Thank you."
"Performer?" he asked.
"What?"
"Are you a performer? Are you on the stage?"
​"No." Lillian smiled with pleasure. "What could I do on the stage?" she asked him as though he were urging her to go in for a career.
The pawnbroker shrugged. "I don't know what you could do," he said. "I was just wondering."
"No," Lillian said again. She looked in her bag to be sure that the money and the ticket were safe. She went out then, very well satisfied with the outcome of her adventure.
Hubert was waiting for her when she reached home. He was sitting in the chair by the window, mopping at his forehead with a large grayish handkerchief.
"Hello," he said. "Where were you?"
"Out."
"You wouldn't kid me, would you? I thought you were hiding under the bed."
"Don't be sore. Got any money?"
"No. Why?"
"Today's rent day."
"Gee, I forgot all about it." His pale eyes dreamed down at the street below. "Well, don't worry, Lil. You know I can get the money."
"I got it," she shouted. She had meant to break the news more gently so that the surprise would be greater.
"What? You got it? How?" He stared at her unbelievingly.
"I hocked my ring."
"Which one?"
"Now, how many did I have? The one with the sapphires and diamonds, of course."
"What did you get for it?"
​"Fifty dollars," she announced proudly.
"Gee, Lil, you ought to have gotten more than that. Those fellows are supposed to give you one-third of the ring's value. I paid two hundred and forty dollars for it. You should have got sixty-five—no, you should have got eighty dollars for it."
"Just because you paid two hundred and forty dollars for it don't prove it's worth that much. Maybe you got gypped."
"Don't be silly. I got it wholesale."
"Even so," said Lillian sulkily. It's no fun to have one's surprises ruined with unkind criticism. "Anyhow we have the rent."
They waited in for the collector, who appeared promptly at eighty-thirty. Lillian handed him the money and got a receipt which she tucked carefully away in the bureau drawer. In the other house she hadn't saved receipts. She saved them now. Poverty makes you mistrust people.
They went to the movies for the nine o'clock show. Lillian didn't feel like going, but Hubert insisted.
"Hell, what's the use of sitting here?" he argued. "It's cooler in the movies and it takes my mind off my troubles for a while."
Lillian said nothing. She went to comb her hair. His troubles. She hated him to admit that there were troubles. Things were more easily coped with if they were not mentioned or at most referred to lightly.
Cliff and Anna were at the theater. Lillian saw them sitting in the next to the last row, gaping up at the picture. She did not mention to Hubert that the Sullivans ​were there. She was afraid that he would insist upon speaking to them. She knew that Cliff and Anna would be very pleasant and polite, but she had no desire to force herself upon them.
After the picture Lillian and Hubert stopped and had ice cream. They took a short walk then. When it was impossible to prolong their absence further they returned to their stifling little apartment and went to bed.
Lillian paid her electric bill next day. Instead of mailing the money she delivered it in person. It was something to do. The days were so long and there was never anything to do but sit at her window and hope. She had tried walking on Dyckman and Two Hundred and Seventh Street, but she found no pleasure in these walks. She kept her eyes turned from the dress and millinery shops lest she see something desirable and unattainable. The other shops bored her. She cared nothing for marquisette curtains, books, or hardware. She thought of walking along the Drive but decided that would be a bore, too, with no one to talk to. There were buses running from One Hundred and Eighty-First Street down to Washington Square. She knew that many women spent the afternoon taking the ride down and back perched on top of the bus. But that was not for Lillian, who trusted no one's driving but her own. She thought often of her roadster and Louise and shopping and everything that used to make her afternoons fly.
She came home from paying her electric bill and undressed. She bathed and slipped on her kimono, then ​took her seat at the window. Those women down in the street with their kids, now—they were probably busy every minute. No time to hope or fear or anything else. She knew now that babies got orange juice. The mothers on this street attended to a great many of their children's needs outdoors.
The trim, clean little Essex drove up to the door and Lillian jumped up and waved eagerly to Theresa. She was deeply touched by Theresa's kindness and quiet faithfulness. She had a hard way about her. She wouldn't lie to save your feelings like some people would, but she was there when you needed her.
Theresa came in and pushed her hat up off her forehead. It balanced itself at a crazy angle and made Theresa look like an imbecile. "Gee, it's hot," she said.
"You can sing that," Lillian agreed. "I was down to pay my electric bill and when I came back I jumped right in a cold bath."
"That's what I'm going to do when I get home. I just stopped in to say hello."
"What have you been doing?"
"Not a thing. Too damn hot."
"You said it. We went to the movies last night. We saw Harold Lloyd. He was funny. Cliff and Anna were there."
"Speak to them?"
"Go on. I'm not going to make people talk to me if they don't want to. Have you seen them lately—or the Fishers?"
"I saw Louise last night. She came over and borrowed some forks. She's giving a party tonight."
​"Going?"
"No. Here's a laugh. She didn't invite me."
"No kidding."
"I swear she didn't. Isn't that a scream? She borrowed a dozen forks and turned down my best tablecloth—because it wasn't white; it's ecru openwork lace, you know—and didn't invite me."
"Who's going? Have you any idea?"
"Yes. Friends of Billy's."
"Radio people?"
"Well, that's what Louise wanted me to believe, but I think they're paint salesmen. She's in a new apartment, you know."
"Oh, yes. Where?"
"West side. Bennett Avenue."
"That's fine. I'll go see her often."
"Yes. You and me both. I hope I get my forks back."
"You won't; so don't worry about them."
"I won't, heh? You don't know me."
Yes, Theresa did look pretty capable and prosperous, too. Of course an Essex wasn't a Packard. Still, Theresa got everywhere she wanted to go and wasn't starving to pay garage rent. Lillian liked the way her friend was dressed today. She had on a white flannel pleated skirt, a white sweater, and a white felt hat that was cut high above the eyebrows and low on the neck. Then on her feet were bright green kid pumps. Theresa had white pumps, but it amused her to wear the unexpected. When she did that she felt that she was outwitting the part of her nature that wrangled with fruit dealers over a nickel.
​Yes, Theresa looked prosperous and she had been a friend, too. An idea was forming in Lillian's mind. Maybe Hubert wouldn't like it. Still there was really no harm in it and soon they would be able to fix it all up again.
"Gee, Theresa, this has been a terrible summer for me. We've been so broke. I'm going to ask you something. I just thought of it and you can say no without hurting my feelings if you want to say no. It's a terrible nerve, I know, but, honest, you're my only friend. Theresa, could you lend me some money?"
Theresa studied the tips of her green slippers. Three times she started to speak, then seemed to think better of it. At last she asked, "Lillian, will you believe me if I say that I can't afford it?"
Lillian smiled. "Sure, Theresa, I understand," she said.
"No, no, that isn't what I mean at all. You're understanding the wrong thing. You're understanding that I don't want to lend you the money and that I'm just stalling. That isn't it, Lillian, honest to God, it isn't."
"No, of course not. I know what you mean."
"I don't think you do. Truly, Lillian, if I could afford it I'd lend you a thousand dollars, but I'm stuck. I can't afford it. Honest, I can't."
"That's all right, Theresa. Don't feel so bad about it."
"Well, I do. I hate to turn you down, Lillian. You can't know how I feel about this. Gee, if I could afford it, you could have it. God, I'm placed in a funny position."
​"Why?"
"Oh, this turning you down. It must look to you as though I claimed to be your friend and then turned out to be like the rest when I'm needed."
"No. I understand, Theresa. Honest I do."
But Theresa only shook her head and murmured, "I wish I could afford to lend you money just to prove that I'm not hot air."
"Oh, it's all right. We'll get along."
"Look, Lillian, maybe I can show you I'm your friend yet. Come to my house and stay as long as you like. I have that couch and you can stay till you get work and save up enough to get on your feet again."
"Gee, that's nice of you, Theresa. I appreciate that, really I do. But you know men are funny. I think Hubert would rather we had our own place, lousy as it is."
Theresa said, "To tell you the truth, Lillian, the invitation didn't include Hubert."
"Oh." Lillian's mouth hardened and grew thin. "Did you think I'd walk out on him because he's broke?"
"He couldn't call it walking out on him when you've stood it for six months."
"If he's got to stand it longer I can stand it too."
"Look, let's be sensible. That means unpleasant. Did you ever stop to consider that your Hubert goes home every so often and gets his belly full of good food? That he's too damn stubborn to sell the Packard and make things easier for you? You're not doing him any good by being here, and he's not doing you any good. You'd be better off away from him."
​"He spent his money on me and my friends, didn't he?"
"Suppose he did. He got paid for it. You've given him damn near two years of your life." Theresa had never seen Lillian argumentative before or with hot, red cheeks. She knew that Lillian was sore at her, but she was set on saying what she thought. She said, "He can stand this place better than you can. No, not because he's a man. That's story-book stuff. Men aren't braver than women. He can stand it because he gets a rest from it occasionally. He can go home and probably sleep in a damn fine house. Where can you go? Not only that, but he has that house to think of in dark moments. He can go there to stay, Lillian, if worst comes to worst. Did you ever think of that?"
"No."
"Well, think of it now. See things my way."
"Why?"
"Because I'm right. He wanted you and he got you. You owe him nothing."
"Would you feel that way about Hymie? If Hymie couldn't provide for you tomorrow would you feel free to leave him flat?"
"No."
"Because some mug said hocus-pocus Latin or Hebrew—or however you were married—over you. You think if a girl isn't married to a man she's so low that a few lousy, stinking tricks won't make her any worse."
"Lillian, you know I'm not like that. You're talking damn foolishness. I wouldn't feel justified in leaving Hymie because that boy has worked for me. We're ​married since I'm eighteen. That's eight years. Three of those years he spent in a factory, and once, believe it or not, he was a bus boy in a restaurant for a month. He's earned a right to expect me to stick through thick and thin."
"I don't believe you, Theresa. I think you're expecting me to break loose just because I'm not married to Hubert."
"You insult me, Lillian."
"To hell with that. You insult me, too, when you think I'm the kind that goes with a fellow's bank roll."
"Why doesn't Hubert sell that Packard?"
"Theresa, I don't even consider that my business."
"All right, Lillian. I just want to help you. I—"
"I don't want any help from you, Theresa. Anybody who doesn't include Hubert when they're dealing out favors don't have to help me."
"Oh, you God-damn fool, Lillian Cory." Theresa stopped and began to cry. "What the hell," she said. "I'll be going."
She went. Lillian from the window saw the sun glinting on Theresa's gay little green slippers. She heard the car start and she leaned out of her window and was still watching when it turned the corner.
"I guess she was the best friend I ever had," Lillian thought. "She always seemed so decent and square. Gee, I'd even thought she was the kind a person could depend on."