Chapter Thirteen

LUNCHEON had been a quiet affair. Peter and George had done most of the talking and Johnny listened. There was much lie felt he had to learn and they were equally anxious to bring him up to date. Both men carefully avoided references to Johnny's injury; neither did they talk about Joe, for fear of bringing back unpleasant memories to him.

It passed quickly, and when Peter left Johnny at his office, he told him he would pick him up after the screenings that had been arranged for him were over. Johnny looked at him. "You don't have to do that, Peter," he said, "I'll see you in the morning."

Peter was surprised. "What do you mean? You're not coming home with me for dinner? After Esther has been planning all day to make your favorite dish— knedloch and chicken soup? And Doris is coming special down from school to be with us. It's like old times again, Johnny. You're coming home for dinner and I won't take no for an answer. I don't understand how you can think of anything else on your first night home."

Johnny looked at him dumbly. Doris. He had tried not to think of her all day, but he knew he would have to face it some time. She thought she was in love with him once, but it was silly, it was only a schoolgirl infatuation. She would be over it now.

But he knew he was wrong. He knew that it was something deeper and stronger than that. Otherwise he would not have felt as he had. And now, without a leg, a returning soldier. He

could imagine her sympathy going out to him and awakening the feelings she had when he had gone away.

There was no way out, however. He would have to go and face it. And if she said anything about how they had felt and acted before he had left, he would have to tell her that it was only a kid thing on her part—that he had never felt anything but affection for her as a child.

Peter was looking at him. Peter would think it strange if he did not come—if he did not want to. He would be hurt. And Esther would feel bad too.

He forced a smile to his lips. "All right, if you want me to," he said. "I just didn't want to be any trouble to you."

Peter laughed. "Since when is your own any trouble?"

Johnny entered his office thoughtfully, Peter's voice ringing in his ears. The words kept repeating themselves over and over: "your own." Did it mean that Peter had an idea about Doris and himself? Maybe she had said something to her parents?

No, that was silly. She had nothing to tell them. It was just Peter's way of talking. They had been so close that Peter thought of him as part of the family, that was all.

He and Rocco sat in the darkened projection room and watched the screen. When the first picture had been com­pleted he realized the screen itself had improved technically too. A great deal of the flicker from the screen had been cut down. The movements of the actors now seemed more real, more lifelike. The staccato-like movements of yesterday had been slowed down to a point where the figures no longer seemed to jump from place to place on the screen.

The methods of telling a story, too, had improved. The scenario was now a play that was easy to follow. The art of close-up, fade-out, titling, all had been related to make a more harmonious whole. He began to realize that he would have to make a trip out to the studio to learn more about these new techniques. The screen had outgrown him in the short time he had been away.

He lit a cigarette in the dark room. In the glow of the match he could see Rocco's face watching the screen, enrapt in the story. He smiled to himself. Just seeing Rock there made him feel better. It was funny how the thought that Rock was near him would steady him. He remembered that dream he had had back in the hospital.

Where he was trying to run and he fell and people laughed at him. He had been afraid of that ever since. He did not want people to laugh at him, nor did he want them to feel sorry for him. And when Rocco was around he knew that none of this would happen. Rocco had a way of foreseeing embarrassing situations and avoiding them. He had a way of turning talk away from things that might upset him. He would step between Johnny and any hurt that he felt would come to him. He was glad that Rock had promised to stick around.

"My car is downstairs," Peter said. "I just called Esther and told her we'd be home in half an hour. She was as excited as a bride the first time her family is coming to dinner."

"I'm ready," Johnny answered quietly.

They went out into the street. There was a limousine wait­ing in front of the building, a chauffeur stood holding the door open.

Peter stood by and let Johnny get into the car first. The inside of the car was luxuriously furnished, all velour-lined. Peter followed him into the car, then Rocco clambered in on the other side of Peter.

Johnny looked around him. "This is class," he said. "New car, Peter?"

Peter nodded proudly. "Pierce Arrow," he said, smiling, "with a special custom-built body."

"It's okay," Johnny said.

The big car began to roll silently and smoothly. Soon they were on Fifth Avenue heading downtown. It slid to a stop in front of a large apartment house opposite Central Park.

A doorman opened the door of the car. "Good evening, Mr. Kessler," he said.

"Evening, Tom," Peter replied.

They waited for Johnny to get out of the car, then they went into the building. It was a new house.

Johnny looked around him. He didn't say anything, but he was impressed. You had to have pumpkins to live in a place like this. Now he began to realize in personal terms the import of all he had seen and heard during the day.

He followed Peter into an elevator. The car took them up

eleven stories and let them out into a hall that was as luxuriously furnished as the lobby had been.

Peter stopped in front of a door and rang the bell.

Johnny looked at the door and his heart began to pound strangely within him. Unconsciously he braced himself.

The door opened. Esther stood there. For a moment there was an awkward silence while they looked at each other; then she came to him and threw her arms around him. She began to cry.

Johnny stood there stiffly, afraid to take his hands from his crutches because he might fall. He stared over her shoulder as she kissed his face. Doris was in the doorway. Her face was pale and thin and her eyes were wide and dark in the glow of the hall light.

Rocco, standing behind Johnny, could see their eyes talking over her mother's shoulder. He looked at Doris. Her hair hung loosely over her shoulders, framing her face into an oval mask. Her hands were clenched tightly. Her lids dropped over her eyes. It was as if someone had suddenly turned the lights off in her face. She looked toward the floor. Rocco could see the hard tears swim reluctantly toward the corner of her eyes. He saw her blink twice, trying to hold them back.

Somehow she knew then what Johnny had made up his mind to tell her. How she knew, Rocco could not determine. Not a word was spoken, but she knew. Her whole body showed that she knew it—the sudden loosening of the tense frame, the slight slumping of her shoulders.

It happened in only a moment, but Rocco knew a lifetime had passed for her.

Esther stopped kissing Johnny, stepped back from him, and holding him by the shoulders, looked at him. "My Johnny," she cried softly. "What have they done to you?"

"Mamma, don't be a fool," Peter said gruffly. "He's here, isn't he? What more can we ask?"

Dinner was a silent meal. They talked, but no one would speak of what was in their hearts. The silent tears were hidden behind smiling masks.

All through the meal Rocco could see Doris looking at Johnny. They were seated across the table from each other. Whenever he looked up he would see her watching him.

Johnny's face was white and he spoke little. He didn't know what to say.

She had grown, matured, since he had last seen her. Then she had been a beautiful girl, but now she was a woman—a woman grown beautiful and somehow warm and gracious in a few years.

Dinner was over and they went into the living-room. Johnny and Doris were last to leave; and for a moment they were alone in the dining-room. She put her coffee cup down and quietly got out of her seat and went over to him. His eyes were on her as she came close to his chair.

She bent over him. Her voice was quiet, controlled. "You didn't kiss me, Johnny."

He didn't answer. His eyes were on hers. Slowly she pressed her lips to his. For a moment a spark leaped between them. Johnny could feel himself drawing to her, and he held himself back. The corners of her mouth trembled against his lips. He leaned away from her.

She straightened up and looked down at him. Her voice was low, with an undercurrent of hurt running through it. "You've changed, Johnny."

He looked at her. Then he looked down at his leg. "Yes," he said bitterly, "I've changed."

"I don't mean that," she said. "You've changed inside."

His voice was level. "It's possible. Everything that changes a man's appearance changes him. You change if you lose a tooth. You don't smile so often."

"But you still smile sometimes, Johnny. You don't grow cold and bitter."

He didn't answer.

She looked at him for a moment and could feel the tears come to her eyes and was ashamed of them. She tried to hold them back. Her voice shook a little as she spoke. "Remember when we spoke last—how we laughed and we looked at each other and you promised to bring me back a present?"

He shut his eyes. He remembered. "Yes," he said, knowing it would hurt her, "I remember. You were a kid then and the war was just another adventure and I promised to bring you a souvenir when it was over."

She winced as his words cut into her. "Is that all it meant to you?"

He opened his eyes wide and looked at her in apparent innocence. "That's all," he said. "Why? Was it supposed to mean anything else?"

He watched her turn from him and run to the door and out of the room. He struck a match with shaking fingers and lit a cigarette. He sat there for a moment before he struggled to his feet to go into the living-room.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-14