# Kept Woman/Chapter 17

Hubert had to buy a tire for the Packard and a suit of clothes for himself. Lillian had to have a hat, too, and another dress. Even at that the five hundred dollars did them for two months. It was lucky money only in the sense that it was a good thing they had it, for no positions glittering with gold reared their heads. There was no magic upon the five bills which the Nash had brought, and June descending upon Inwood found Hubert and Lillian warm, broke, but strangely enough, not discouraged.
Hubert had demoted the Packard to the section of the garage wherein it received no service. That was cheaper. When Helen raved about the car's appearance then he had it washed. The Packard had become a loathsome monster to Hubert. He hated the sight of it. A millstone about his neck. The gasoline it consumed, the greasing and garaging and other things it cried for, were difficult for him to provide; yet he could not get rid of the car. Not being his, he couldn't sell it. If he returned it to Helen he would have to show Lillian money for its sale or else confess that he had never owned it. He begrudged the car even the water that he gave it. Lillian never suggested any more that the Packard should be sold. She saw now that without it ​they would be just any down-and-out couple. The Packard was their mark of distinction, their last remaining link with the world that had garden courts.
Never once did her faith in Hubert falter. He was not the kind of man who is called poor; he was merely broke. Something adventurous with a hint of a happy ending lurked in that word "broke." The summer, of course, was a bad time to get a position. But they'd manage somehow, and the day would finally come when Hubert would hit things right again. A man who can spend twenty-five thousand dollars without batting an eyelash isn't slated for the rocks.
Hubert hadn't remembered that he owed Carl Feldman a hundred dollars till he and Lillian were down once more to their last twenty-dollar bill.
"Gee," he thought, "I ought to have paid him."
Still, it wouldn't have been good sense to leave himself short. Besides, what was a hundred dollars? Some day, very soon now, he'd walk up to Carl with the hundred dollars and perhaps a bottle of real good Scotch and he'd tell Carl the whole story about how very broke he had been. They'd have a drink together and a darn good laugh. But in the meantime he dodged Carl and when Carl wrote to him he did not answer the letter. He would explain everything once he was all set again.
Sometimes he wondered if he ought to take a job doing just anything at all. It would only be temporary, of course. Just till things started breaking right again. It might be the sensible thing to do, but gee, a fellow who has owned his own business and really been some​body couldn't drive a taxi or be a canvasser or anything like that. It wouldn't be sensible, come to think of it. A big business man isn't going to take a guy on to handle an executive job if he's just come from doing some little unimportant thing.
When the last twenty-dollar bill had been broken to pay the iceman Hubert went to see Arch McKay. It was the first effort he had made to see him since the time he had seen Bert in the McKays' house. He had often thought of going up, but something had always intervened. Besides, it wasn't good sense to appear anxious.
Arch McKay was tall and slim. He never looked well-shaven because of the thick blue-blackness of his beard. He had tight, narrow lips, and Hubert thought he was kind of a mean-looking duck. Funny that he never noticed before today that Arch's voice was deep and gruff.
He shook hands with Hubert and told him to make himself comfortable. He disappeared then and Hubert sat alone regarding familiar objects and hearing familiar sounds.
When Arch came back he carried his hat. "Had lunch?" he asked.
"Not yet."
"Come on."
They walked around the corner to a small, quiet restaurant. Hubert recognized it as the sort that Louise Fisher always called refined. When Hubert had patronized it there had been a Greek owner and a great deal of noise during lunch hour. It had changed hands. He sighed. Nothing seemed to have remained the same.
​"What have you been doing?" Arch asked him.
"Wasting my time."
"Is that so? Don't you like being retired?"
"Not a bit. Wish I could get something to do."
"That oughtn't to be hard."
"Well, it is, Arch. See, this time of the year and all. Maybe Bert told you I offered to help him out while you were in Canada."
Arch nodded. The waiter came for their order. Arch said, "What's it going to be, Scott?"
Hubert thought he'd like the blue plate luncheon. Arch said, "Make it two."
The waiter went away and Arch sat quiet for a long while. Then he said, "A fellow over at the club—I won't tell you who—said he thought you were broke. If that was the case, Scott, I could get you something to do. It wouldn't be much. It would only pay about thirty-five a week, but it would be better than nothing."
"Sure," said Hubert, nodding eagerly.
"Only I know it isn't true," Arch McKay went on. "Your house must be worth thirty thousand and you have the Packard and you've just bought that piece of property next to the movie theater."
Hubert's eyes widened and Arch added, "Well, your wife did. Same thing." The waiter brought the blue plates and departed. Arch picked up his fork. "So by my figuring you can't be broke."
Arch McKay fixed Hubert with his eyes. His glance said, "You act like a fellow who is broke; yet facts are facts. Clear up the mystery. Come clean if you want help from me."
​Hubert filled his mouth with string beans and stared over McKay's shoulder at an electric fan that whirred busily. Thirty-five dollars a week. Gee, that would be great now that he and Lillian knew how to live without splurging. And maybe there was a future to the job, too. Gosh, past forty and looking for a job with a future. Oh, well, many a man had built his fortune later than that. He'd take the job. He looked back at Arch. He was waiting to be convinced that Hubert needed that job. Arch wanted to know why he appeared prosperous and yet ran about asking for work. He couldn't tell him. There was too much to tell. It went back to old man Dietz who had bought the house and deeded it to Helen, who had warned Helen that Hubert wasn't much and had lived to say, "I told you so." It meant telling Arch that Helen had furnished a separate room for him and that he had to knock on her door before entering. Arch wouldn't understand. He couldn't because even Hubert couldn't. Helen was funny. Always had been. Once they had a big party. All the nicest people in town were there. Old man Dietz's friends and Helen's. When everybody had gone Helen slumped in a chair and cried. Hadn't come to bed at all that night. Just stayed downstairs pacing the floor and crying. No reason for it. It had been a good party, a successful party. Hubert had done card tricks for them and made fifty-cent pieces turn into pennies. No reason why Helen should have cried that night. All these things were somehow vaguely involved in what Arch wanted to know. And he couldn't tell him. Take the time Helen had bought Liberty Bonds and explained ​to their small son that she bought them because they were a good investment. Hubert Sr. had added, "Yes, and it helps whip the God-damned Germans." Helen had said, "You ignoramus, your son is a God-damned German on my side." And that night he had heard her explain to the boy that the German soldiers must be beaten for the sake of world prosperity but that they were just fellows like Uncle Rudolph. Great stuff to tell a kid, and it turned the kid against his father, too.
Arch was still waiting.
Maybe he could say instead that he loved another woman and explain in part the complications that arose therefrom. But Arch McKay was an ardent churchman and a good Rotarian.
"Hell, no. I'm not broke," Hubert said. "Just bored with being idle."
"That's what I figured," Arch returned.
They talked of other things then. Of politics, of real estate, of tailors, and of business. Of baseball, of weather, of cars, and of aviation. Finally Arch said that he had to be getting back to work.
"Think I'll go to the ball game," Hubert said. "Oh, gee, I can't. I'm out without a red cent and no check-book."
Arch dug his hand in his pocket and brought out a twenty-dollar bill.
"Wait till I pay the check," he said. "I'll let you have a couple of dollars. Five do?"
"Make it ten, will you? I may have dinner in New York."
Arch said, "I'll give you fifteen if you want it."
​"All right. I'll let you have it back tomorrow."
They walked in silence to the place where the Packard was parked. Hubert jumped in. "Thanks, Arch. See you about that tomorrow."
"All right. So long."
Arch stood on the pavement watching the car till it disappeared. He scratched his head and looked perplexed. Instead of going back to work he strolled then over to the club. Even so superior a creature as a business man likes to talk puzzling matters over with his friends.
Hubert went back to Lillian. She was lying on the couch in a yellow kimono. Her hair was still tousled and her face unpowdered.
"What's the matter?" he asked. "Sick?"
"No. Only it's so God-damned hot. I haven't got the pep to get dressed."
"It'll be hotter than this, kid. This is only the beginning. Come on, get dressed. We'll go for a ride to the seashore and have dinner down there."
"Don't you think we'd better go easy on our money?"
"Why, I got fifteen dollars today in a funny way. I was up talking to Arch McKay and he happens to mention that old man Schliffer owes him a hundred and fifty dollars which he can't collect. Well, old man Schliffer and me are like that"—Hubert exhibited two fingers closely entwined—"friends for years. Him and me. I hopped right over there and old man Schliffer passes over the money like nothing. Said he just didn't like the McKay Brothers' way of asking for it. Well, when I showed the money to Arch, maybe he wasn't glad! ​Thought it was gone forever. He insisted upon giving me ten percent collection fee. I didn't like to take it. I thought it looked kind of cheap, but the first thing you know, Arch begins to think I'm holding out for more money; so, of course, I took it then."
"Sure. Did he say anything about a job?"
"Well, not much. The McKays ain't making out so awfully well. If they'd take me in they'd do better, but of course they can't pay my price. Arch says a fellow over at the club—he wouldn't tell me who—is anxious to talk to me about a job, but when Arch mentioned what he'd pay I didn't want to know who the guy was. Come on, Lil, let's go out to the shore."
Lillian was dressing when Theresa arrived. Theresa had become a frequent visitor. Her little Essex was a familiar sight parked behind the big Packard.
She was dressed in a red and white silk gingham dress with a floppy red hat and red pumps. She looked cool and clean and pretty. She was a heartening visitor and had a manner of dropping in as willingly as though it was a pleasure to visit in the mean little apartment. She could slap at a roach in so casual a manner that Lillian was never embarrassed, and she could sit for hours on one of the wobbly Windsor chairs and look comfortable.
Lillian, clad in the blue georgette dress that had by now lost all of its original freshness and style, gazed wistfully at Theresa's trim summer togs.
"Don't let me keep you in," Theresa said. "I'm just barging around and if you have to go somewhere, don't let me interfere."
"No, glad to have you," said Lillian. The two girls ​lit cigarettes and settled down to talk. Hubert stared out the window at the clean little Essex. God, his car was dirty. Helen would have a fit.
"Say," he said, "I think I'll take the car and have it washed. I don't want to listen to you two dames gab anyhow."
Theresa watched him go out. She said nothing of what she was thinking and was surprised when Lillian said, "He feels that he really ought to go back to work, but I want him to wait till autumn when there will be better opportunities."
Theresa nodded slowly. Lillian must know how things stood better than she could possibly know. Perhaps matters weren't as bad as they appeared to be.
"I saw Anna and Cliff last night," she said after a time. "They dropped in. Hymie was under the shower and I was washing my hair when they came. Of all times! I could have killed them."
"I can imagine," said Lillian. "I haven't seen them or the Fishers for ages. They all came in that one night I told you about and never came again. I guess they didn't like the apartment. Too lowbrow for them."
"Anna is going to have a baby," Theresa said.
"Oh, yes! That's a surprise to me. I thought she was going to work for ages yet."
"Well, you know, those things happen."
"Yeh. I'll have to write Anna a letter of good wishes and so forth. Maybe I'll drop over and see her."
Theresa shook her head and looked steadily at Lillian. "Don't," she said.
"Why not?"
​"Well, don't, Lillian, that's all."
"But why?"
"Look here, you know I'm not a tale-carrier, don't you? I'll tell you why not, but it's not for the fun of carrying tales. It's because I hate to see you hurt by a little skunk like Cliff Sullivan."
"What's the matter?"
"Don't laugh, it's pathetic. We were all talking, you know, and Hymie happened to mention you. As a matter of fact we were talking about hair on account of me standing there drying mine, and Hymie said you had the loveliest hair he had ever seen. That from my devoted husband, mind you. Anyhow we talked about you for a minute or two and Cliff said that they wouldn't be seeing you because a woman in Anna's condition couldn't afford to be seen being friends with you. He said that people would start saying that maybe Anna wasn't married either and when the baby came people might say it was a little basket. That's what Cliff said. Basket instead of the real word. Cliff is so cute that way, the skunk."
"Well, maybe it's all for the best," said Lillian. "People know what they want to do about things."
"If it wasn't for you," Theresa said, hotly, "Anna would have a basket that could walk and say 'Da-Da' by now."
"Oh, Theresa!" Lillian was shocked. "Who told you that?"
"Hymie. Anna told him herself one night when she was plastered. Told him not to tell, but she was barking up the wrong tree when she picked Hymie. He told me, but, of course, he wouldn't tell any one else. She ​told him, too, about a lot of other things you had done for her and Cliff."
"Well, why doesn't Louise come around any more? She isn't having a baby, is she?"
"Not that I know of."
"Why can't she be seen with me? I'm too common, I guess, for a famous man's wife to be friends with."
"To hell with them, Lillian. They're a bunch of oil cans."
"I know it. I guess I always knew it, but I've never been one to like people for a reason."
"Yes. I never sponged on you or talked about you, and still you like Louise better than me."
"No, I don't. Maybe I did once, but living in this lousy place with nothing to do but think, you get kind of sensible even if you fight against it."
Hubert came back just as Theresa was saying good-by to Lillian. She was inviting them to Sunday dinner at her house and Lillian was accepting. Hubert was glad. Sundays were mean, hard days. Everything closed up, everybody quiet. If a fellow was ever going to be blue and discouraged, Sunday was the day for it, all right.
"I guess it's too late to go to the shore now," Lillian said.
"Yes, I guess it is."
"Well, we'll have a good dinner at home. I'll run out and get a good thick steak and corn on the cob and tomatoes and a real creamy cake. How does that sound?"
"Fine."
It was while they were eating the good thick steak that a thought occurred to Lillian. "Say," she said, ​"you know what we ought to have done? We ought to have gotten a cheap dinner tonight and gone to the shore tomorrow."
"Gee, yeh," said Hubert. He stopped chewing as though it were not too late to conserve. "Oh, well, what the hell." He resumed his chewing as he spoke. "There'll be many more days to go to the shore."
After dinner Lillian went to the couch and Hubert to his big chair. It was too warm for checkers or the movies. They were silent for more than an hour, listening to the cry of a baby, the shouts of children in the street, and women talking to each other down at the door. Lillian thought Hubert had fallen asleep. She glanced over at him. He was watching the street interestedly, as though something of importance were transpiring.
"What are you looking at?" she asked languidly.
"Nothing."
"Oh, I thought you were looking at something."
"No."
"Oh."
"There's nothing to look at."
"No. I suppose not. Well, I guess I might as well get at those dishes."
"I'll help you."
"Never mind. There aren't many."
They were in bed by ten o'clock.