“What are you doing there on papa’s bed?” he screamed.
Steve rose stupidly and seized him by the arm. The woman sat up, dopily staring, her short legs widened.
“I suppose you’re going to be a little Tattletale,” said Steve, bludgeoning him with heavy contempt. “You’re going to run right up and tell mama, aren’t you?” he said. He fastened his yellow fingers on Eugene’s arm.
“Get off papa’s bed,” said Eugene desperately. He jerked his arm away.
“You’re not going to tell on us, buddy, are you?” Steve wheedled, breathing pollution in his face.
He grew sick.
“Let me go,” he muttered. “No.”
Steve and Margaret were married soon after. With the old sense of physical shame Eugene watched them descend the stairs at Dixieland each morning for breakfast. Steve swaggered absurdly, smiled complacently, and hinted at great fortune about the town. There was rumor of a quarter-million.
“Put it there, Steve,” said Harry Tugman, slapping him powerfully upon the shoulder. “By God, I always said you’d get there.”
Eliza smiled at swagger and boast, her proud, pleased, tremulous sad smile. The firstborn.
“Little Stevie doesn’t have to worry any longer,” said he. “He’s on Easy Street. Where are all the Wise Guys now who said ‘I told you so’? They’re all mighty glad to give Little Stevie a Big Smile and the Glad Hand when he breezes down the street. Every Knocker is a Booster now all right, all right.”
“I tell you what,” said Eliza with proud smiles, “he’s no fool. He’s as bright as the next one when he wants to be.” Brighter, she thought.
Steve bought new clothes, tan shoes, striped silk shirts, and a wide straw hat with a red, white and blue band. He swung his shoulders in a wide arc as he walked, snapped his fingers nonchalantly, and smiled with elaborate condescension on those who greeted him. Helen was vastly annoyed and amused; she had to laugh at his absurd strut, and she had a great rush of feeling for Margaret Lutz. She called her “honey,” felt her eyes mist warmly with unaccountable tears as she looked into the patient, bewildered, and slightly frightened face of the German woman. She took her in her arms and fondled her.
“That’s all right, honey,” she said, “you let us know if he doesn’t treat you right. We’ll fix him.”
“Steve’s a good boy,” said Margaret, “when he isn’t drinking. I’ve nothing to say against him when he’s sober.” She burst into tears.
“That awful, that awful curse,” said Eliza, shaking her head sadly, “the curse of licker. It’s been responsible for the ruination of more homes than anything else.”
“Well, she’ll never win any beauty prizes, that’s one thing sure,” said Helen privately to Eliza.
“I’ll vow!” said Eliza.
“What on earth did he mean by doing such a thing!” she continued. “She’s ten years older than he if she’s a day.”
“I think he’s done pretty well, if you ask me,” said Helen, annoyed. “Good heavens, mama! You talk as if he’s some sort of prize. Everyone in town knows what Steve is.” She laughed ironically and angrily. “No, indeed! He got the best of the bargain. Margaret’s a decent girl.”
“Well,” said Eliza hopefully, “maybe he’s going to brace up now and make a new start. He’s promised that he’d try.”
“Well, I should hope so,” said Helen scathingly. “I should hope so. It’s about time.”
Her dislike for him was innate. She had placed him among the tribe of the Pentlands. But he was really more like Gant than anyone else. He was like Gant in all his weakness, with none of his cleanliness, his lean fibre, his remorse. In her heart she knew this and it increased her dislike for him. She shared in the fierce antagonism Gant felt toward his son. But her feeling was broken, as was all her feeling, by moments of friendliness, charity, tolerance.
“What are you going to do, Steve?” she asked. “You’ve got a family now, you know.”
“Little Stevie doesn’t have to worry any longer,” he said, smiling easily. “He lets the others do the worrying.” He lifted his yellow fingers to his mouth, drawing deeply at a cigarette.
“Good heavens, Steve,” she burst out angrily. “Pull yourself together and try to be a man for once. Margaret’s a woman. You surely don’t expect her to keep you up, do you?”
“What business is that of yours, for Christ’s sake?” he said in a high ugly voice. “Nobody’s asked your advice, have they? All of you are against me. None of you had a good word for me when I was down and out, and now it gets your goat to see me make good.” He had believed for years that he was persecuted—his failure at home he attributed to the malice, envy, and disloyalty of his family, his failure abroad to the malice and envy of an opposing force that he called “the world.”
“No,” he said, taking another long puff at the moist cigarette, “don’t worry about Stevie. He doesn’t need anything from any of you, and you don’t hear him asking for anything. You see that, don’t you?” he said, pulling a roll of banknotes from his pocket and peeling off a few twenties. “Well, there’s lots more where that came from. And I’ll tell you something else: Little Stevie will be right up there among the Big Boys soon. He’s got a couple of deals coming off that’ll show the pikers in this town where to get off. You get that, don’t you?” he said.
Ben, who had been sitting on the piano stool all this time, scowling savagely at the keys, and humming a little recurrent tune to himself while he picked it out with one finger, turned now to Helen, with a sharp flicker of his mouth, and jerked his head sideways.
“I hear Mr. Vanderbilt’s getting jealous,” he said.
Helen laughed ironically,
