CRAZY SUNDAY V
It was Sunday again. Joel realized that he had come to the theater this evening with the work of the week still hanging about him like cerements. He had made love to Stella as he might attack some matter to be cleaned up hurriedly before the day's end. But this was Sunday—the lovely, lazy perspective of the next twenty-four hours unrolled before him—every minute was something to be approached with lulling indirection, every moment held the germ of innumerable possibilities. Nothing was impossible—everything was just beginning. He poured himself another drink.
With a sharp moan, Stella slipped forward inertly by the telephone. Joel picked her up and laid her on the sofa. He squirted soda-water on a handkerchief and slapped it over her face. The telephone mouthpiece was still grinding and he put it to his ear.
“—the plane fell just this side of Kansas City. The body of Miles Calman has been identified and—”
He hung up the receiver.
“Lie still,” he said, stalling, as Stella opened her eyes.
“Oh, what's happened?” she whispered. “Call them back. Oh, what's happened?”
“I'll call them right away. What's your doctor's name?”
“Did they say Miles was dead?”
“Lie quiet—is there a servant still up?”
“Hold me—I'm frightened.”
He put his arm around her.
“I want the name of your doctor,” he said sternly. “It may be a mistake but I want someone here.”
“It's Doctor—Oh, God, is Miles dead?”
Joel ran upstairs and searched through strange medicine cabinets for spirits of ammonia. When he came down Stella cried:
“He isn't dead—I know he isn't. This is part of his scheme. He's torturing me. I know he's alive. I can feel he's alive.”
“I want to get hold of some close friend of yours, Stella. You can't stay here alone tonight.”
“Oh, no,” she cried. “I can't see anybody. You stay. I haven't got any friend.” She got up, tears streaming down her face. “Oh, Miles is my only friend. He's not dead—he can't be dead. I'm going there right away and see. Get a train. You'll have to come with me.”
“You can't. There's nothing to do tonight. I want you to tell me the name of some woman I can call: Lois? Joan? Carmel? Isn't there somebody?”
Stella stared at him blindly.
“Eva Goebel was my best friend,” she said.
Joel thought of Miles, his sad and desperate face in the office two days before. In the awful silence of his death all was clear about him. He was the only American-born director with both an interesting temperament and an artistic conscience. Meshed in an industry, he had paid with his ruined nerves for having no resilience, no healthy cynicism, no refuge—only a pitiful and precarious escape.
There was a sound at the outer door—it opened suddenly, and there were footsteps in the hall.
“Miles!” Stella screamed. “Is it you, Miles? Oh, it's Miles.”
A telegraph boy appeared in the doorway.
“I couldn't find the bell. I heard you talking inside.”
The telegram was a duplicate of the one that had been phoned. While Stella read it over and over, as though it were a black lie, Joel telephoned. It was still early and he had difficulty getting anyone; when finally he succeeded in finding some friends he made Stella take a stiff drink.
“You'll stay here, Joel,” she whispered, as though she were half-asleep. “You won't go away. Miles liked you—he said you—”She shivered violently, “Oh, my God, you don't know how alone I feel.” Her eyes closed, “Put your arms around me. Miles had a suit like that.” She started bolt upright. “Think of what he must have felt. He was afraid of almost everything, anyhow.”
She shook her head dazedly. Suddenly she seized Joel's face and held it close to hers.
“You won't go. You like me—you love me, don't you? Don't call up anybody. Tomorrow's time enough. You stay here with me tonight.”
He stared at her, at first incredulously, and then with shocked understanding. In her dark groping Stella was trying to keep Miles alive by sustaining a situation in which he had figured—as if Miles' mind could not die so long as the possibilities that had worried him still existed. It was a distraught and tortured effort to stave off the realization that he was dead.
Resolutely Joel went to the phone and called a doctor.
“Don't, oh, don't call anybody!” Stella cried. “Come back here and put your arms around me.”
“Is Doctor Bales in?”
“Joel,” Stella cried. “I thought I could count on you. Miles liked you. He was jealous of you—Joel, come here.”
Ah then—if he betrayed Miles she would be keeping him alive—for if he were really dead how could he be betrayed?
“—has just had a very severe shock. Can you come at once, and get hold of a nurse?”
“Joel!”
Now the door-bell and the telephone began to ring intermittently, and automobiles were stopping in front of the door.
“But you're not going,” Stella begged him. “You're going to stay, aren't you?”
“No,” he answered. “But I'll be back, if you need me.”
Standing on the steps of the house which now hummed and palpitated with the life that flutters around death like protective leaves, he began to sob a little in his throat.
“Everything he touched he did something magical to,” he thought. “He even brought that little gamin alive and made her a sort of masterpiece.”
And then:
“What a hell of a hole he leaves in this damn wilderness—already!”
And then with a certain bitterness, “Oh, yes, I'll be back—I'll be back!”
