# Quicksand (Larsen)/Part 5

Five
Gray Chicago seethed, surged, and scurried about her. Helga shivered a little, drawing her light coat closer. She had forgotten how cold March could be under the pale skies of the North. But she liked it, this blustering wind. She would even have welcomed snow, for it would more clearly have marked the contrast between this freedom and the cage which Naxos had been to her. Not but what it was marked plainly enough by the noise, the dash, the crowds.
Helga Crane, who had been born in this dirty, mad, hurrying city, had no home here. She had not even any friends here. It would have to be, she decided, the Young Women‘s Christian Association. “Oh dear! The uplift. Poor, poor colored people. Well, no use stewing about it. I‘ll get a taxi to take me out, bag ​and baggage, then I‘ll have a hot bath and a really good meal, peep into the shops—mustn‘t buy anything—and then for Uncle Peter. Guess I won‘t phone. More effective if I surprise him.”
It was late, very late, almost evening, when finally Helga turned her steps northward, in the direction of Uncle Peter‘s home. She had put it off as long as she could, for she detested her errand. The fact that that one day had shown her its acute necessity did not decrease her distaste. As she approached the North Side, the distaste grew. Arrived at last at the familiar door of the old stone house, her confidence in Uncle Peter‘s welcome deserted her. She gave the bell a timid push and then decided to turn away, to go back to her room and phone, or, better yet, to write. But before she could retreat, the door was opened by a strange red-faced maid, dressed primly in black and white. This increased Helga‘s mistrust. Where, she wondered, was the ancient Rose, who had, ​ever since she could remember, served her uncle.
The hostile “Well?” of this new servant forcibly recalled the reason for her presence there. She said firmly: “Mr. Nilssen, please.”
“Mr. Nilssen‘s not in,” was the pert retort. “Will you see Mrs. Nilssen?”
Helga was startled. “Mrs. Nilssen! I beg your pardon, did you say Mrs. Nilssen?”
“I did,” answered the maid shortly, beginning to close the door.
“What is it, Ida?” A woman‘s soft voice sounded from within.
“Someone for Mr. Nilssen, m‘am.”
The girl looked embarrassed.
In Helga‘s face the blood rose in a deep-red stain. She explained: “Helga Crane, his niece.”
“She says she‘s his niece, m‘am.”
“Well, have her come in.”
There was no escape. She stood in the ​large reception hall, and was annoyed to find herself actually trembling. A woman, tall, exquisitely gowned, with shining gray hair piled high, came forward murmuring in a puzzled voice: “His niece, did you say?”
“Yes, Helga Crane. My mother was his sister, Karen Nilssen. I‘ve been away. I didn‘t know Uncle Peter had married.” Sensitive to atmosphere, Helga had felt at once the latent antagonism in the woman‘s manner.
“Oh, yes! I remember about you now. I‘d forgotten for a moment. Well, he isn‘t exactly your uncle, is he? Your mother wasn‘t married, was she? I mean, to your father?”
“I—I don‘t know,” stammered the girl, feeling pushed down to the uttermost depths of ignominy.
“Of course she wasn‘t.” The clear, low voice held a positive note. “Mr. Nilssen has been very kind to you, supported you, sent you to school. But you mustn‘t expect anything else. And you mustn‘t come here any more. ​It—well, frankly, it isn‘t convenient. I‘m sure an intelligent girl like yourself can understand that.”
“Of course,” Helga agreed, coldly, freezingly, but her lips quivered. She wanted to get away as quickly as possible. She reached the door. There was a second of complete silence, then Mrs. Nilssen‘s voice, a little agitated: “And please remember that my husband is not your uncle. No indeed! Why, that, that would make me your aunt! He‘s not―”
But at last the knob had turned in Helga‘s fumbling hand. She gave a little unpremeditated laugh and slipped out. When she was in the street, she ran. Her only impulse was to get as far away from her uncle‘s house, and this woman, his wife, who so plainly wished to dissociate herself from the outrage of her very existence. She was torn with mad fright, an emotion against which she knew but two weapons: to kick and scream, or to flee.
The day had lengthened. It was evening ​and much colder, but Helga Crane was unconscious of any change, so shaken she was and burning. The wind cut her like a knife, but she did not feel it. She ceased her frantic running, aware at last of the curious glances of passersby. At one spot, for a moment less frequented than others, she stopped to give heed to her disordered appearance. Here a man, well groomed and pleasant-spoken, accosted her. On such occasions she was wont to reply scathingly, but, tonight, his pale Caucasian face struck her breaking faculties as too droll. Laughing harshly, she threw at him the words: “You're not my uncle.”
He retired in haste, probably thinking her drunk, or possibly a little mad.
Night fell, while Helga Crane in the rushing swiftness of a roaring elevated train sat numb. It was as if all the bogies and goblins that had beset her unloved, unloving, and unhappy childhood had come to life with tenfold power to hurt and frighten. For the wound was ​deeper in that her long freedom from their presence had rendered her the more vulnerable. Worst of all was the fact that under the stinging hurt she understood and sympathized with Mrs. Nilssen‘s point of view, as always she had been able to understand her mother‘s, her stepfather‘s, and his children‘s points of view. She saw herself for an obscene sore in all their lives, at all costs to be hidden. She understood, even while she resented. It would have been easier if she had not.
Later in the bare silence of her tiny room she remembered the unaccomplished object of her visit. Money. Characteristically, while admitting its necessity, and even its undeniable desirability, she dismissed its importance. Its elusive quality she had as yet never known. She would find work of some kind. Perhaps the library. The idea clung. Yes, certainly the library. She knew books and loved them.
She stood intently looking down into the glimmering street, far below, swarming ​with people, merging into little eddies and disengaging themselves to pursue their own individual ways. A few minutes later she stood in the doorway, drawn by an uncontrollable desire to mingle with the crowd. The purple sky showed tremulous clouds piled up, drifting here and there with a sort of endless lack of purpose. Very like the myriad human beings pressing hurriedly on. Looking at these, Helga caught herself wondering who they were, what they did, and of what they thought. What was passing behind those dark molds of flesh. Did they really think at all? Yet, as she stepped out into the moving multi-colored crowd, there came to her a queer feeling of enthusiasm, as if she were tasting some agreeable, exotic food—sweetbreads, smothered with truffles and mushrooms—perhaps. And, oddly enough, she felt, too, that she had come home. She, Helga Crane, who had no home.