“You’re my husband now John.” And laughing they looked at each other in the coziness of the empty parlorcar.
White letters, Atlantic City, spelled doom over the rainpitted water.
Rain lashed down the glaring boardwalk and crashed in gusts against the window like water thrown out of a bucket. Beyond the rain she could hear the intermittent rumble of the surf along the beach between the illuminated piers. She lay on her back staring at the ceiling. Beside her in the big bed John lay asleep breathing quietly like a child with a pillow doubled up under his head. She was icy cold. She slid out of bed very carefully not to wake him, and stood looking out the window down the very long V of lights of the boardwalk. She pushed up the window. The rain lashed in her face spitefully stinging her flesh, wetting her nightdress. She pushed her forehead against the frame. Oh I want to die. I want to die. All the tight coldness of her body was clenching in her stomach. Oh I’m going to be sick. She went into the bathroom and closed the door. When she had vomited she felt better. Then she climbed into bed again careful not to touch John. If she touched him she would die. She lay on her back with her hands tight against her sides and her feet together. The parlorcar rumbled cozily in her head; she fell asleep.
Wind rattling the windowframes wakened her. John was far away, the other side of the big bed. With the wind and the rain streaming in the window it was as if the room and the big bed and everything were moving, running forward like an airship over the sea. Oh it rained forty days. … Through a crack in the cold stiffness the little tune trickled warm as blood. … And it rained forty nights. Gingerly she drew a hand over her husband’s hair. He screwed his face up in his sleep and whined “Dont” in a littleboy’s voice that made her giggle. She lay giggling on the far edge of the bed, giggling desperately as she used to with girls at school. And the rain lashed through the window and the song grew louder until it was a brass band in her ears:
Oh it rained forty days
And it rained forty nights
And it didn’t stop till Christmas
And the only man that survived the flood
Was longlegged Jack of the Isthmus.
Jimmy Herf sits opposite Uncle Jeff. Each has before him on a blue plate a chop, a baked potato, a little mound of peas and a sprig of parsley.
“Well look about you Jimmy,” says Uncle Jeff. Bright topstory light brims the walnutpaneled diningroom, glints twistedly on silver knives and forks, gold teeth, watch-chains, scarfpins, is swallowed up in the darkness of broadcloth and tweed, shines roundly on polished plates and bald heads and covers of dishes. “Well what do you think of it?” asks Uncle Jeff burying his thumbs in the pockets of his fuzzy buff vest.
“It’s a fine club all right,” says Jimmy.
“The wealthiest and the most successful men in the country eat lunch up here. Look at the round table in the corner. That’s the Gausenheimers’ table. Just to the left.” … Uncle Jeff leans forward lowering his voice, “the man with the powerful jaw is J. Wilder Laporte.” Jimmy cuts into his muttonchop without answering. “Well Jimmy, you probably know why I brought you down here … I want to talk to you. Now that your poor mother has … has been taken, Emily and I are your guardians in the eyes of the law and the executors of poor Lily’s will. … I want to explain to you just how things stand.” Jimmy puts down his knife and fork and sits staring at his uncle, clutching the arms of his chair with cold hands, watching the jowl move blue and heavy above the ruby stickpin in the wide satin cravat. “You are sixteen now aren’t you Jimmy?”
“Yes sir.”
“Well it’s this way. … When your mother’s estate is all settled up you’ll find yourself in the possession of approximately fiftyfive hundred dollars. Luckily you are a bright fellow and will be ready for college early. Now, properly husbanded that sum ought to see you through Columbia, since you insist on going to Columbia. … I myself, and I’m sure your Aunt Emily feels the same way about it, would much rather see you go to Yale or Princeton. … You are a very lucky fellow in my estimation. At your age I was sweeping out an office in Fredericksburg and earning fifteen dollars a month. Now what I wanted to say was this … I have not noticed that you felt sufficient responsibility about moneymatters … er … sufficient enthusiasm about earning your living, making good in a man’s world. Look around you. … Thrift and enthusiasm has made these men what they are. It’s made me, put me in the position to offer you the comfortable home, the cultured surroundings that I do offer you. … I realize that your education has been a little peculiar, that poor Lily did not have quite the same ideas that we have on many subjects, but the really formative period of your life is beginning. Now’s the time to take a brace and lay the foundations of your future career. … What I advise is that you follow James’s example and work your way up through the firm. … From now on you are both sons of mine. … It will mean hard work but it’ll eventually offer a very substantial opening. And dont forget this, if a man’s a success in New York, he’s a success!” Jimmy sits watching his uncle’s broad serious mouth forming words, without tasting the juicy mutton of the chop he is eating. “Well what are you going to make of yourself?”
