Edythe May Gordon, "Subversion" (1928)
By EDYTHE MAE GORDON
THE deepening twilight wrapped the world in a dusky veil of mystery. Like a tired runner, the wind sighed among the bare branches overhead. Houses and stores, people and automobiles, streets and sidewalks, all sank into indistinguishable shadow.
John Marley was a music teacher-a teacher of piano, and an unsuccessful one. His face was deeply furrowed, and the coat which he pulled protectingly about him was threadbare. In his tired, muddy eyes there lay a puzzled expression. Where was he to get the money to pay the note that was due? An immense self-pity gripped his throat.
He again ran over in his mind his most likely friends. . . . Suddenly his muddy eyes grew clearer. How had he forgotten Charlie Delany?
Delany was a bachelor, and, incidentally, a prosperous realtor.
"No luck this year," muttered John Marley. He stumbled with an uncertain gait up Broad street on his way to Delany's house.
"I've never asked him for anything," the music teacher thought. "And we've been good to him.... No luck this year. No luck any year. The doctor said one lung's gone. Maybe I won't live long, anyway. I bet my wife will be glad. I'm a miserable failure .... Then she'll have some money . . . my insurance."
When he reached the intersection of Broad and Waverly streets he slipped and fell on the sidewalk. Automobiles whizzed by. A crowd gathered. John Marley looked foolish. He turned his head round to see who had noticed him fall. He shuffled to his feet. A few yards away in the street lay his hat. He picked it up and smoothed out the folds made by the automobile. As he buttoned up his coat, he shivered and continued on his way.
"What's happened to you, Marley?" Charlie Delany asked, opening the door wide. He slapped Marley gently on the shoulder as he propelled his friend into the warm living room.
"Slipped on the icy sidewalk. Got all wet." John Marley looked ruefully at himself, then went over and stood in front of the sizzling radiator.
"Too bad! You can't go out in this condition . .. a wet coat. Take mine. I'll get it later." Charlie Delany's coat was of black broadcloth with collar, cuffs, and lining of soft beaver.
Finally, several bills of large denomination having been pressed into Marley's hand, he prepared to go. He said: "Don't forget Lena and I expect you to dinner tomorrow, as usual." Being assured that Charlie would be present, he shut the door with vigor and departed.
Charlie Delany was an old friend. Since he was not married he always ate Thanksgiving dinner with the Marleys. They would not think of having him eat dinner in a restaurant on Thanksgiving Day.
On his way home Marley gradually began to see things in a different light. Life seemed a bit more cheerful. His cough seemed less painful. Perhaps it was Charlie Delany's beaverlined coat, with the beaver collar and cuffs, that made him feel different. One would feel different in a warm coat. Charlie Delany had given him a glass of gin- "to heat you up and keep you from catching more cold." It did more, for it enkindled in him the fire of renewed manhood.
Why didn't he get a good warm coat? Didn't clothes help determine what people thought of you? Didn't you have to be the master of your own fate? If he had had a warm coat three years ago perhaps he'd have two strong lungs today. People didn't want him teaching their children when he was continually coughing. And he could not blame them. From one of the easy-payment stores he could get a fairly good coat. Ten dollars down and a dollar a week ....
He straightened his shoulders and almost strutted up Broad street. When he reached a brilliantly-lighted store, whose window displayed a variety of merchandise, he turned the knob smartly and sauntered importantly through the door. He felt happy, and he must buy something for Lena. He wanted to make her happy, too.
From the variety of things in the store he finally decided upon a pretty but inexpensive scarf for Lena and a toy airplane for the boy.
He hoped the scarf would please his wife. Perhaps she would show him more affection.
Perhaps she would not be quite so cold. He remembered how Lena had loved him before worries came, before the cough came, before the slender times came. After all, who knew but that the doctor might be mistaken? He might live a long time. One could live quite a long while with one lung. He might even increase the number of his pupils, if he tried hard enough.
He would then have more money . . . Lena would then love him as she had long ago.
He thought: "Lena used to quarrel every time I invited Charlie Delany to dinner. She'd make mean remarks. Gradually she changed her attitude toward him. Why shouldn't she change her attitude toward me, and love me again if I am more prosperous?" John Marley went to one or two other places, among them the barber shop. He got a haircut and had his face massaged. It was eight o'clock when at last he reached home.
He was thinking, as he mounted the steps: "What will Lena say when she sees me wearing this beautiful coat? She'll brighten up and run up to me and kiss me, I'll bet." He paused in the dark hall. He put his hand into the coat pocket for the key but it was in his own old coat, and that was at Charlie Delany's. He rang the bell. In the dark hall Lena gave him a kiss and put her arms about his neck. She stood very close to him and stroked the beaver collar.
She kissed him again and again and buried her head against the coat, now cooing softly: "Marley isn't home, yet. The boy cried and called for you today." Keen knife-thrust was Lena's voice. How weary he felt! How useless was life! How futile everything! "Yes," answered John Marley, his voice striving treacherously to betray him. He kissed her tenderly. "Yes, he's home." At dinner next day John Marley sat very quiet. At the table Lena tried hard to act as if everything was all right. One who noticed would have plainly seen that she was ill with fear. She wondered what her husband was thinking. She wished she had a chance to tell Charlie of last night.
While Charlie talked and laughed over his own stories, John sat staring at his son. He thought he saw Charlie's eyes and chin. Lena, Charlie, and the child ate. The husband hoped they did not notice him. He wondered what Lena thought, but could not look at her.
"You seem very quiet today, John." Charlie reached for the after-dinner mints. "Thinking about the accident of last night, I guess," he hazarded, sympathetically.
"Yes." John pushed back his chair, putting his hand to his mouth as if to hide the convulsive tremor of his lips.
"I'm thinking about my boy!" There was a pause, then he continued: "I'm thinking of something else, too. I don't believe I'm going to live much longer. Life has given me all the joy it ever will." As he spoke a vague incomprehensible solitude encompassed him.
"I want to thank you for your friendship, Charlie. When I'm gone be kind to Lena and the boy. I can think of no more appropriate person to ask such a favor of." Charlie Delany mumbled incoherently and was vividly red in the face. He looked away.
Lena's eyes were twice their usual size. She acted as if she was going to cry.
Published in Saturday Evening Quill, June 1928