Place in the City by Howard Fast Page B

before. What was in the card-room, he didn’t know. All he knew was that he was very, very drunk.
    Hands helped him across. Once, he stopped, remembering that he had had to go somewhere. Where, he couldn’t for the life of him remember. He could recall that he was married; but whom was he married to? Tears came into his eyes at the thought. He was married, but he didn’t know his wife.
    In the room, one small light was burning. There was a bed next to the roulette, on the bed a shapeless white figure. Next to the bed, a man was pulling on his coat.
    Before he could comprehend it, Danny stared at the scene for almost a minute. Then, crying bitterly, he said to the man:
    â€œGet out of here and get away from my wife. I ought to kill you.”
    â€œSure, Danny.”
    â€œGet out!”
    Danny sat down on the bed, put his face in his hands, and wept silently. The figure on the bed lay with its face buried in the pillow; but Danny knew that it was his wife. Otherwise, why would they have sent him in here? Then, very slowly, he recalled the stream of men that had gone in and out of the card-room all evening. And it was his wife. That’s what Timy had done to him; that’s what Timy’s friendship meant.
    â€œHey—hey!” He tapped her on her shoulder. He wanted to call her by name, but he couldn’t for the life of him recall her name. It was on the tip of his tongue, but still it eluded him. “Turn over,” he said.
    She moved convulsively, whimpered.
    â€œYou crying too?” Danny whispered.
    â€œLeave me alone.”
    â€œAw, honey, now what are you afraid of? I won’t hurt you. You know that.”
    â€œGet away.”
    â€œYou’re sore because I’m drunk,” Danny pleaded. “It’s not my fault. Timy says the smartest lawyer in town got a right to get drunk. Geesus, Timy’s drunk himself.”
    She whimpered again, moved an arm feebly. Tenderly, Danny drew part of a sheet over her, to cover her nakedness. He didn’t think it right that his wife should lie in bed naked, with men walking in and out of the room.
    â€œTurn over, baby,” he whispered. “I’m your husband.”
    â€œNo—”
    â€œTurn over,” he said sternly. “I’m your husband, and what I say goes. Once and for all, what I say goes. See, I’m not drunk. Just listen to the way I talk. Listen to my ss. Ssssss—Baby, turn over.”
    â€œWhat—what?”
    â€œI’m your husband. You heard me.”
    â€œHe’s dead—dead.”
    â€œI’m dead? Just look at me.”
    She turned over then, slowly, groaning, and looked at him. Then she screamed, and he remembered that his wife’s name was Alice, that this wasn’t Alice. The woman continued to scream.
    â€œGet away!” she cried.
    Throwing open the door, he ran across the hall toward Timy. Once he fell, but he was up again in an instant.
    â€œYou bastard,” he yelled, “where’s my wife?”
    Timy looked at him and grinned. “Easy, Danny,” he said.
    â€œYour wife ain’t here. What’d she be doin’ here?”
    â€œWhere’s my wife?”
    They came from all over the hall.
    â€œTake it easy, Danny.”
    â€œWhadda yu want yu wife tonight fur?”
    â€œTake a drink, Danny.”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œBetter take him home, Timy.”
    â€œSure—sure—sure—”
    â€œYou don’ wanna cry, Danny. What th’ hell yu cryin’ about?”

W HEN Alice came home, her mother and father were waiting. As she entered the room, Meyer looked at her: first, she thought that he looked at her, and then she saw that he was looking through her, and then she wondered whether he saw her at all. Something had happened. She was deliriously happy, but she could not help noticing that Meyer was old. All in one evening, her father had become an old man, her mother too. Maybe they knew.