Anniversary

Mrs. Taylor shuffled a worn pack of cards and began her evening session at solitaire. She would play probably forty games before she went to bed, and she would win thirty of them. What harm if she cheated a little? Russian Bank was more fun, but it cannot be played alone, and her husband was bored by it. He had been unable to learn bridge in spite of the patient and more or less expert teaching of the Hammonds, who lived three blocks away.

The thirty-four-dollar synthetic radio had done nothing but croak since the day following its installation. The cheap piano’s D and G above middle C were mute. The town’s Carnegie Library acquired very few “hot” books and the few were nearly always out. Picture plays hurt Louis’ eyes and he would not let her go out nights by herself, though he had no scruples against leaving her at home from eight to eleven Wednesdays, when he attended lodge and bowled.

So Mrs. Taylor shuffled her cards and tried to listen when Louis read aloud from the Milton Daily Star or the Milton Weekly Democrat, or recounted stories she had heard six times before and would hear six times again.

She had awakened this morning to the realization that it was the twelfth day of November, the ninth anniversary of her marriage. Louis had remembered that date for the first six years of their life together; for the last three years it had been to him just November the twelfth.

Nine years ago the Star and the Democrat had called her one of Milton’s most charming and beautiful young women, and they had been right. They had referred to Louis as a model young man, sober, industrious and “solid”; a young man whom any girl should be proud and glad to have as a husband. They were right again.

Now Mrs. Taylor, at thirty-three, was good-looking, but in a cold, indifferent sort of way. She no longer bothered to embellish her natural attractiveness and she lacked the warmth and vivacity which had won the adoration of most of Milton’s male youth, notably Walter Frayne, Jim Satterly and Louis Taylor himself.

Louis was still a model young man, sober, industrious and “solid.” When you thought of the precarious existence of the women who had married his chief rivals, you couldn’t help feeling that wisdom and good luck had been on Mrs. Taylor’s side when she made her choice.

Walter had attended college for one semester, at the end of which he came home with a perfect record of studies, 4; Flunks, 4. He had run amuck in Milton and ultimately, turned down by the girl he really cared for, had married an orphan whose parents had left her $150,000⁠—but not for long. After this tidy sum had been poured away Walter was almost continuously unemployed and people wondered how he and his wife lived. And why.

There was nothing of the gay dog about Jim Satterly. He had graduated from high school and gone into the Milton Gas Company’s office as bookkeeper at eight dollars per week. He was now thirty-five years old and still with the gas company, but his salary had been steadily increased until it was twenty-two dollars. His wife gave weekly piano lessons to a class of four pupils at fifty cents a half-hour each. She had borne Jim three children, or kiddies. The Satterlys seemed to enjoy their kiddies and an occasional picture show, but no magazine editor had ever sent a staff man to get a success story out of Jim.

Louis Taylor was secretary to the town’s only wealthy man, old Thomas Parvis, who owned a controlling interest in the Interurban Railway. Louis worked long hours and was paid four thousand a year, big money in Milton. It was enough to keep the childless Taylors in comfort; in comparative luxury, even. Couples with smaller incomes owned cars, took trips to nearby lake resorts and to Harper City, where a stock company presented worthwhile plays. But Louis was saving for a rainy day and his wife had long ago given up praying for rain.

Mrs. Taylor was winning her fourth successive victory over solitaire by the simple expedient of pretending that a black queen was red.

“It says here,” stated her husband, “that there are 27,650,267 automobiles in the world, according to a census just completed.”

It was Mrs. Taylor’s own fault that Louis had contracted the habit of reciting interesting tidbits from the paper. Back in May, 1924, he had asked her whether she would like to hear the news of the Loeb-Leopold case. She had already read it, but she said yes, thinking it would be more thrilling, even in repetition, than one of Louis’ own experiences, also in repetition. Since then, she had listened every evening⁠—except Wednesday, when Louis went out, and Sundays, when there was no paper⁠—to excerpts from the Star, consisting principally of what is known in newspaper offices as filler⁠—incontrovertible statistics about men and things in all parts of the world, facts that seemed to smite her husband like a bolt from the blue.

“Think of it!” he said. “Nearly twenty-eight million automobiles!”

“Heavens!” said Mrs. Taylor.

“And speaking of automobiles: ‘Storms have made roads so bad in parts of Chile that drivers have not dared to go into the rural districts.’ That’s the trouble with owning a car. If you don’t stay right on the paved streets or paved roads, you’re liable to get stuck and maybe walk home. Besides that, you’ve got to be a mechanic yourself or else, when there’s something wrong, you have to take it to a garage and lay it up a week till they consent to look at it and find out what’s the matter, and then they don’t know themselves nine times out of ten. But they charge you just the same and they charge you plenty. Did I tell you about Walter Trumbull’s trip to Harper City?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Taylor.

“I don’t believe I did. It was only last Friday night; no, Thursday night, the night after the Spartans beat us by one pin, when I had a chance to get a 202 and hit the head pin just a little too full and they split on me. That was the night Berger showed up so drunk he couldn’t bowl and we had to use Tommy and he shot 123.

“So it was the night after that when Walter and Marjorie started over to the City to see the Seventh Heaven, and about five miles the other side of Two Oaks the engine died and Walter couldn’t get it going again. His flashlight wouldn’t work and Marjorie wouldn’t let him strike matches with the hood up to see what the trouble was. As it turned out, it wouldn’t have done him any good anyway.

“Finally he left poor Marjorie in the car and walked way back to Two Oaks, but the garage was closed up for the night and the whole town was asleep, so he went back to the car and by that time of course it was too late to see the show. He hailed three or four cars coming from the other way, trying to get a ride home, but it wasn’t till after ten o’clock that he could get a car to stop and pick them up. The next morning he sent Charlie Thomas out to fix up the car so it would run or else tow it in, and Charlie found out there was nothing the matter with it except it was out of gas. When Walter told me about it, I said that was what he deserved for not patronizing the Interurban.”

“We don’t patronize it ourselves.”

“I hear enough about it in the daytime without riding on it at night.”

Mrs. Taylor shuffled the cards and Louis resumed perusal of the Star.

“The old U.S. is a pretty good country after all,” he said presently. “Listen to this: ‘The Netherlands’ unemployed now include 26,000 skilled and 24,000 unskilled workers.’ And listen: ‘A large proportion of Belgium’s population still wear wooden shoes.’ You wouldn’t think that was possible in this day and age!”

“I imagine,” said Mrs. Taylor, “that there are some places in the United States where people don’t wear any shoes at all.”

“Oh, sure, but not a large proportion; probably a few of those backwoods Tennessee mountaineers. And of course the colored people in the small towns in Georgia and South Carolina. You see lots of them, passing through on the train, that never had a shoe on in their life. I remember a place named Jesup, Georgia, a kind of junction. There was⁠—No, that wasn’t Jesup; it was some other place, some place the boss and I went through on the way to Daytona that time. I guess I told you about it.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Taylor.

“You wouldn’t believe the way some of those people live. Not all colored people, either; white people, too. Poor white trash, they call them. Or rather, ‘po’ white trash.’ Families of four and five in one room. Mr. Parvis said it was a crime and kept wishing he could do something for them.”

“Why didn’t he?”

“Well, he’s hardly got money enough to house and clothe the whole South and it wouldn’t do any good to just pick out some one town and try and better conditions there.”

“Why not?”

“It would be a drop in the bucket, and besides, other towns would hear about it and pester the life out of him. I reminded him he was taking the trip to get away from care and worry for a while and he ought not to fret himself about other people’s business. Then, too, if he was going to practise some of his philanthrophy down there, I’d probably be put in charge of it. We might have even had to live there a year or two. I guess you wouldn’t like that, would you?”

“It wouldn’t make any difference to me,” said Mrs. Taylor.

“What! Live in one of those Godforsaken holes, without any friends or anybody you’d want to make friends with! Nothing to do all day and all night but eat and sleep and⁠—”

“Play solitaire,” suggested Mrs. Taylor.

“You may think you wouldn’t mind it, but that’s because you’ve never seen it. Those Georgia villages are an interesting study, but as for making your home in one of them, you’d die of loneliness. Of course there’s some spots in Florida that are pretty close to heaven. Take Daytona, for instance. But I’ve told you what it’s like.”

“Yes.”

“They’ve got a beach that’s so hard and smooth that they have automobile races on it. It’s beautiful. And it’s right close to Ormond, where Rockefeller spends his winters. Mr. Parvis and I saw him playing golf on the Ormond course. I can’t see anything in golf myself, but maybe I would if I had a chance to get interested in it. When I’m as old as he is, I’ll try it out, providing I’ve got as much time and one-millionth as much money.”

“There’s no reason why you shouldn’t have fully as much money.”

“I know what you mean by that. You’re digging at my thriftiness, though I suppose you call it stinginess. You’ll look at it differently when we’re old.”

“I hope I won’t be here to look at it at all.”

“No, you don’t. But what was I saying? Oh, yes. Daytona is where I’d like to live in winter, if I had the means. I must have told you about running into Harry Riker down there.”

“You did.”

“It certainly was a funny thing, running into him! We hadn’t seen each other for twenty-two years and he recognized me the minute he set eyes on me. I wouldn’t have known him from Adam’s off ox.

“It sure did take me back, running into Harry. He recalled one time, just before I left Shelbyville, when his father and mother were away on a visit somewhere. Harry’s aunt, Mr. Riker’s sister, was supposed to be taking care of Harry while his father and mother was away, but she was kind of old and she used to go to sleep right after supper.

“Well, there were a couple of girls, sisters, named Lindsay. They lived out in the country, but came in town to school. Harry and I thought we were stuck on them, so one night after supper, when Harry’s aunt had gone to sleep, we hitched up Mr. Riker’s horse and buggy and drove seven miles out in the country to call on the Lindsay girls. When we got out there it was raining, so we unhitched the horse and put him in the barn and⁠—”

“He got loose, didn’t he? And ran all the way home?”

“Yes, but that comes later. We put him in Lindsay’s barn and we thought we had him tied all right, and Harry and I went in the house and sat around with the girls. Mrs. Lindsay stayed right in the room with us and did most of the talking⁠—”

“You’re sure of that?”

“I certainly am! She was one of these women that talk all the time. She never stopped. So about half past nine she said the girls would have to go to bed, and that was telling us to get out. Well, to make a long story short, the horse wasn’t in the barn and Harry and I walked home seven miles in the pouring rain. We found the horse in his own stall and Harry had to ride him out to Lindsay’s next day and get the buggy. That was the last time we ever called on the Lindsay girls.”

“Kind of hard on them,” said Mrs. Taylor.

“Oh, we were all just kids and there wasn’t anything serious between us. Harry’s in the insurance business now in Indianapolis, doing fine, he told me.”

Louis was almost, but not quite, through with his paper.

“Here’s a funny thing,” he said. “Although Edinburgh, Scotland, had only 237 ice-cream parlors last season, the number was fifty more than were in the city a year ago.”

“I should think that was enough ice-cream parlors.”

“Not for the size of the town. Let’s see. How big is Edinburgh? I’ll have to look it up.”

He was on his way to the bookcase when the doorbell rang. He went to the door and admitted Florence Hammond.

“Hello, Louis. Hello, Bess. This isn’t a social call. We’re out here with a flat tire and Perce wants to borrow your flash.”

“There’s automobiles for you!” said Louis. “More trouble than they’re worth.”

“I tried to persuade Perce to take it to the garage and have them fix it, but he’s afraid driving it even that far would ruin the rim or the shoe or whatever you call it.”

“I’ll get the flash and see if I can help him,” said Louis.

“And you sit down, Florence, and keep me company,” said Mrs. Taylor. “I haven’t been out of the house for three days and I’m dying to hear what’s going on in Milton.”

“You take the Star, don’t you?”

“I’m afraid we do, but it hasn’t been very thrilling lately.”

“You can’t blame the paper for that,” said Mrs. Hammond. “Nothing exciting has happened; that is, in Milton.”

“Has anything happened anywhere?”

“Yes. In Clyde.”

“Clyde. That’s where your sister lives, isn’t it?”

“If you call it living. I’d rather be dead! Honestly, Bess, you and I ought to thank the Lord that we married men who are at least sane and normal. Louis and Perce may not be as good-looking or ‘brilliant’ as Ed, but anyway we always know where they are and what to expect of them.”

“That’s true,” said Mrs. Taylor.

“I wrote Grace a letter today and told her she was simply crazy not to leave him, especially after this last mess. But she won’t give him up. I believe he’s got her hypnotized. And she still loves him. She admits his faults and excuses him and expects everybody to do the same. If she didn’t, she’d keep her troubles to herself and not write me all the details. I realize everybody has their weakness, but it seems to me there are some things I couldn’t forgive. And one of them is a punch in the eye.”

“You don’t mean⁠—”

“Yes, I do. And Grace took it and accepted his apology when he made one. When I think of it, I simply boil!”

“What was the occasion?”

“No special occasion. Just Saturday night. Everybody in Clyde goes to the Yacht Club Saturday nights. There’s no river or lake and no yachts, but they have a sunset gun, so I suppose they’re entitled to call it a yacht club. Grace hated it at first and let Ed go alone, but that only made him drink more and get home later Sunday mornings. Besides, she’s always been a little jealous, and probably with reason. So she decided to go with him and try to enjoy herself. Grace loves to dance and there are some awfully good dancers in Clyde; that is, early in the evening, before they begin to flounder and reel.

“Of course nobody can say Ed married her under false pretenses. She went into it with her eyes wide open. She saw him for the first time at one of those parties and she fell in love with him when he got mad at a man and knocked him down for cutting in on a dance. The man was about half Ed’s size and Ed hit him when he wasn’t looking. That didn’t make any difference to Grace. And it didn’t seem to make any difference to the Yacht Club. Anybody else would have been expelled, but Ed begged everyone’s pardon and wasn’t even scolded.

“That first night he asked Grace to let him drive her home. She was visiting Helen Morse, and Helen advised her not to take the chance. Ed didn’t seem to be in very good driving condition. But Grace was so crazy about him that she told him yes. And then he forgot all about it, went home with another girl and left Grace at the club with some people she hardly knew. She had to call up the Morses and get them to come back after her.

“Well, they met again the next week and Grace thought she would put him in his place by ignoring him entirely, but that didn’t work because he didn’t remember having seen her before. He was comparatively sober this time and awfully nice and attentive. I’ll admit Ed can be nice when he wants to. After that they played tennis together two or three times and then Ed proposed and Grace accepted him and he said he couldn’t wait for a big wedding and she agreed to marry him secretly at Colby, a town about thirty miles from Clyde. She was to be in front of the Clyde post-office at twelve o’clock on a certain day and he was to pick her up in his car and drive to Colby and be married.

“The day came and she waited for him an hour and then went back to the Morses’. That evening he telephoned that he had made a mistake in the day and had just discovered it, and would she please forgive him and meet him the next day at the same place. I blush to say she succumbed, though she suspected what she found out later to be true⁠—Ed had been on a bat and was sleeping it off at the time he was supposed to do his eloping.

“They were married and Ed behaved beautifully on the honeymoon. They spent two weeks in New York and went to the theatre every night and sightseeing in the mornings and afternoons. He had men friends of his to dinner once or twice and gave them all they wanted to drink, but wouldn’t touch anything himself.

“When they got back to Clyde, Ed bought a lovely house already furnished, and the furniture was just what Grace would have picked out. Grace was so happy it seemed as if it couldn’t last, and it didn’t.

“They had been in Clyde a week when Ed announced that he had to go away on a trip. He didn’t trouble to say where or why or how long. He just went, stayed away five days and came home looking as if he had had five or six operations. Grace tried to get him to tell her where he had been, but he just laughed and said it was a secret.

“And that’s the way things have gone on ever since. Ed’s got plenty of money and he gives Grace all she can possibly spend, besides buying her presents that are always lovely and terribly expensive. He’ll be as good as pie for weeks and weeks⁠—except for the Saturday night carousal⁠—and then he’ll disappear for a few days and she won’t know where he is or when to expect him home. Her life is one surprise after another. But when he suddenly hits her in the eye, it’s more than a surprise. It’s a kind of a shock. At least it would be to me.”

“When did it happen?” asked Mrs. Taylor.

“A week ago Saturday,” said Mrs. Hammond. “There was the usual party at the Yacht Club and Ed took more than his usual amount to drink. Along about midnight he disappeared, and so did a girl named Eva Grayson.

“Finally Grace went home, but she sat up and waited for Ed. He came in about four o’clock, pie-eyed. He walked right to where Grace was sitting and without saying anything at all, he hit her, not hard enough to knock her out of her chair but with enough force to really hurt. Then, still not saying anything, he went to bed without taking the time to undress.

“In the morning, or whenever he woke up, he noticed that Grace’s eye was discolored and asked her what had happened. She told him and he made no attempt to deny it. All he said was, ‘Dearest, I can’t tell you how sorry I am. You must believe me when I say I had no idea it was you. I thought it was Eva Grayson. And she deserved to be hit.’

“Can you imagine forgiving a man for a thing like that? Can you imagine continuing to live with him and love him? I’d kill myself before I’d stand it! And Grace excuses him and writes me the full details, just as if it were something she was proud of. I tell you, Bess, you and I can consider ourselves lucky⁠—”

The front door opened and Louis came in with his flashlight.

“You’re all set, Florence,” said he. “I asked Perce in, but he thinks it’s time to drive on.”

“I know it is,” said Mrs. Hammond. “We’re going to play bridge out at the Cobbs’ and we’re terribly late. I ought to have phoned them, but I guess they’ll sit up for us. Good night, Bess. I hope I didn’t bore you with my long monologue.”

“You didn’t,” said Mrs. Taylor.

Louis sat down to finish the Star. Mrs. Taylor shuffled her cards and started a new game, but in the middle of it she rose from the table and went close to her husband’s chair.

“Do you know what day this is?” she said.

“Why, yes,” Louis replied. “It’s Tuesday.”

“It’s Tuesday, November twelfth. Our anniversary.”

“Gosh! That’s right! I wish I’d remembered it. I’d have bought you some flowers. Will it do tomorrow?”

“I don’t want any flowers. But there is something I would like you to give me. And you don’t have to wait till tomorrow.”

“What is it?”

“A punch in the eye,” said Mrs. Taylor.

“You’re feeling kind of funny, aren’t you? Did Florence have a shot of their homemade gin in her bag?”

“No. And I’m not feeling funny. I’m just sleepy. I think I’ll go to bed.”

Louis was reading again.

“It says: ‘Experiments in the raising of sisal are being made in Haiti.’ I don’t suppose you happen to know what sisal is.”

But Mrs. Taylor was on her way upstairs.