turning red.
Kimball's warm hand stroked my face. “Don't let a word scare you. You also keep things that are precious and...”
I don't know why I did it. You see I either had to walk out or show her I was a man. I didn't want out, so I reached over and tore her dress from the shoulder to her hip, pulled her to me. She still had this cat grin on her face, so I pulled her to me as roughly as I could.
And that was it.
It was after midnight when I left Kimball's. I'd slept with my share of girls, but Kimball was the first real woman I'd ever known, and she was amazing. Even between the sheets, she was so wonderfully efficient.
I didn't want to leave, but she put me out, saying, “I'll be knocked out for the week if I don't get some rest on Sunday, look like hell. I'll never get any rest with you around, so darling, go to your room and pack your things and be here Monday night. Okay?”
I stopped at a coffee-pot and had something to eat, tried to figure out what I was getting into. Finally decided I didn't know... but it was something I wanted. Somehow, that seemed to clear my mind, made me feel pretty good.
I walked across Brooklyn Bridge, taking in the beauty of the Manhattan skyline against the moonlight, then took a cab up to my room. As I unlocked the downstairs door, I heard the joker who ran the house—a glorified janitor although he called himself an “agent”—climb out of his bed. He had a large combination office and bedroom on the first floor.
As I went up the stairs, he stuck his head out, whispered, “Mr. Jameson.”
“See you tomorrow with the rent,” I called over my shoulder, and kept on walking upstairs.
“But Mr. Jameson, I...”
I walked faster, ran up the second flight, unlocked my door. I stepped inside and quickly undressed in the dark. I was pretty well pooped.
“Marshal?”
I jumped straight up in the air, my pants in my hand, asked, “Who's there?”
“It's me, Marsh... Mary Jane.”
I found the light cord and there was Miss Kraus in my bed, holding the covers up to her chin. Soon as she saw me, she began to weep.
“What... what are you doing here?”
“Please don't scold me,” she said, through fat tears. “I didn't have anybody else to turn to. You see, I didn't expect to be... fired and I'd bought some dresses last week and now... now I don't have any money. I didn't know what to do, so I came here, told the landlord I was your sister, and he let me wait in your room.” She really began to weep. “Marsh, I waited and waited... and I'm so upset and... well... I just went to sleep.”
I sat down on the bed, feeling so sorry for her I could cry myself. I patted her soft blonde hair, said, “It's all right. Just take it easy.”
“You must think I'm awful to be in your bed... but I've had such a wretched day. Marsh, I don't know what I'm going to do!”
“First thing to do is get some shuteye. I'll sleep in the chair. Tomorrow I'll get you some money and you'll be okay.”
“I couldn't take money from you. Oh that horrible Mr. Barrett!”
“Stop bawling, the money will be a loan,” I said, not even thinking where I'd get money. All I could think was we made a silly tableau—Mary Jane weeping into the sheet and me sitting there in my shorts.
I got up, told her, “Go to sleep and we'll talk about it in the morning. Don't worry.”
Taking one of the pillows, I tossed it on the one big chair, realized I'd put it on her clothing. As I started to take her dress and stockings from the chair, Mary said, “Oh no, I'll sleep in the chair. It's your room,” and she jumped out of bed.
She was wearing one of my sport shirts, and it just reached her hips and she looked very young and inviting— and like a barber-shop calendar. For a short moment we stared at each other, then with a little cry she was in my arms.
The rest of the night was kind of messy. Mary Jane did a great deal of crying and I kept telling her over and over to rest. At some point in the early morning hours, she whispered, “Marsh, we've done a terrible thing. We are going to be married, aren't we?”
I felt all warm and sorry for her, and a little dazed. Kissing her, I said, “Yes,” and she hugged me and went to sleep.
When we went down for breakfast around noon, the agent made some snide cracks and I damn near socked him. So we moved to another room in the next block, as man and wife. While Mary Jane went back to her room to get her bags—and pay her rent—I took the subway over to Brooklyn.
Kimball greeted me with, “Marsh! What a nice surprise. I...”
“I got a surprise, all right, listen.” When I finished telling her what had happened, she shook her head, said, “You poor sucker. You don't have to marry her.”
“I want to, she's a lost kid.”
“She's hooking you. And she isn't a kid, she's twenty-three. I checked her age for Barrett.”
“You pimp for him too?”
She stared at me for awhile, her eyes hurt. I said, “Sorry, I didn't mean that,' Marion but... Oh hell, all right, maybe I am merely sorry for her, but she isn't sophisticated, doesn't know the ropes, floundering like a lost puppy and...”
“You feed a puppy, not marry her.”
“Kimball, I promised to marry her and I'm going through with it. I'll feel lousy if I don't.”
“Okay, Marsh, thanks for telling me.”
“I didn't come just to tell you, Marion. I've got to find a job, but pronto. Neither of us has a dime. You know people, can pull strings. I feel like a heel asking you, but can you help me?”
“See what I can dig up tomorrow. If you need any cash...”
“We have enough for a few days.”
Kimball squeezed my hand. “Call me tomorrow, around noon. And I'm sorry, guess I got you into this, sort of...”
“I'm walking in with my eyes open.”
“I hope so. And I really hope it works out. Call me before noon.”
Mary Jane and I were married on Monday, at the license bureau. Kimball not only got me a job with a big real estate company, but wangled two weeks' salary for both of us from Barrett.
Mary found another steno job and for awhile things went smoothly. Living in one room with two salaries, we had more spending money than before, and during the summer we spent a week with her folks—they ran a small store upstate.
By the end of the year our marriage began to wear. I still felt sorry for her, and at times we had some fine moments. But Mary Jane whined a lot, and if she was young and sweet, she was also dull and boring. I collected rents and didn't even look at a paint- brush.
That Christmas Pearl Harbor happened and we forgot about ourselves and in February I was number seven in my draft board and got my greetings and we had quite a tender scene when I went off.
They sent me to Fort Dix, over in New Jersey, and the only true feeling I had about things, aside from a faint feeling of patriotic duty, was one of relief, of being free from Mary.
