Nigger Heaven/Book 2/Chapter 7
During the next two days and nights Byron spent his every waking and sleeping hour with Lasca. There were rages, succeeded by tumultuous passions; there were peaceful interludes; there were hours devoted to satisfying capricious desires, rhythmical amours to music, cruel and painful pastimes; there were the artificial paradises. Then, late one afternoon, Byron awakened to find himself alone.
At first he had no true realization of what had happened. He threw back the covers to be certain she was not concealed beneath them. Then he sat bolt upright and called her name. There was no reply. Leaping from the bed, he peered into the bathroom. No one there. Turning back, he sought a clue. The dress she had worn the previous evening lay crumpled on the floor where she had dropped it. Her chiffon undergarments, her stockings, her little silver shoes, were scattered about promiscuously. From the dresser, however, he missed her watch and her rings. He sensed a premonition of disaster. She was gone! Standing quite still in the centre of the floor, he tried to conceive what life would be without her.
He pushed the button in a panic of apprehension. Presently the maid appeared.
Where is Mrs. Sartoris? It was vain to attempt to control his voice: it vibrated with anxiety.
She's gone out.
When is she coming back?
She didn't say, the maid replied, and Byron was aware that she spoke with a new and not entirely respectful manner.
Will you have your coffee now? she inquired.
Please.
Byron closed the window, shutting out the chill air, but he left the curtains open. Bright, April sunshine flooded the room. In the bath he found the water too warm. Its tepidity irritated his nerves. Releasing the cold stream, he felt relieved as it stung his aching flesh. When, stepping out of the tub, he towelled himself, his body had become numb. No tingling, just a dead emptiness without sensation that extended to his very toes. While he was dressing an incident occurred which shattered him completely. For the first time in his life he drew the left shoe on the right foot. Aware of what this portent threatened, he tremblingly altered this condition.
He was adjusting his cravat when Marie appeared with the tray.
Just set it down, he said, adding, I'm going out. If Mrs. Sartoris returns, tell her that I'll be back soon.
Why had he announced that he was going out? Why had he dressed in such haste? He knew now. He could not rest a single instant in this apartment without her. It was necessary not only to his peace of mind, but to his very existence that he discover her at once. Leaving his breakfast untouched, he sought his hat and coat and rushed out, slamming the door behind him.
On the sidewalk he hesitated once more, doubtful which way to turn. How could he expect to find her? Where might she conceivably have gone? In the despair of indecision, he was aware of a touch on his arm. Turning, he looked into a smiling black countenance. The man, in chauffeur's uniform, lifted his cap and pointed across the street.
That's Mrs. Boniface's car, he announced. She told me to get you.
Did she . . . ? Byron began and then stopped, realizing that Adora would have explained nothing to this servant. He followed his guide silently and entered the car, his spirits soaring. It must be that Lasca had sent for him. How otherwise would Adora know his whereabouts? As they drove away, his heart was warm with hope.
Fairly leaping out of the car before Adora's house, he plunged down the steps and pressed the bell-button. A maid presently answered the summons.
I am Byron Kasson, he cried. Is . . . ?
Come right in, Mr. Kasson. Rest yo' coat.
She led him upstairs. The drawing-room was empty. Byron paced impatiently back and forth.
At last he saw Adora coming towards him down the stairs.
Where is Lasca? he demanded.
Adora was in the room now. Sit down, please, she invited him, adding, I haven't the slightest idea.
Byron ignored the invitation.
How did you find me then? he inquired.
All Harlem knows where you've been passing your time. I told my chauffeur to keep the car standing outside until you came out alone. It's not been very convenient for me to do without my automobile for two days.
Then why did you do it? To what special kind of interest am I indebted for this attention?
Oh, please sit down and stop shouting at me.
He obeyed her. After all, perhaps she knew something. Perhaps she could help him find her.
Adora, seated facing him, inquired, Has she left you?
Yes. No! What do you mean?
So you've lost her. Well, let me tell you something: you'll never see her again, at least not on the same terms.
You know . . . ! he shot out.
I know this much, she interrupted him, that when Lasca's through, she's through.
You're a liar!
Adora paused for a moment before she replied. Obviously she was making a tremendous effort to control her temper. At last she continued, You're a very rude young man, as well as a very foolish one. If I hadn't asked you here for a particular reason, I don't think I'd . . .
She stopped and he, in his impotent rage, was silent.
I repeat, Adora went on firmly, when Lasca's through, she's through. I know her like a book, in and out. She's as hard as steel.
Don't you dare say a word against her!
I won't even mention her name again if you don't. After all, you spoke of her first. What I want to talk about is Mary.
So she's been blabbing!
See here, young man, if you jump at conclusions like that, it's no wonder you commit impulsive acts that no one in his right senses would be capable of. No, Mary hasn't been blabbing, but it's plain to be seen that she thinks of nothing but you. She loves you, that's the simple fact. You certainly don't deserve it. Nevertheless she loves you and nobody else.
She'll get over it, he countered bitterly.
Unfortunately for her, she will not, Adora retorted sternly. It's either you or nobody.
She puts on airs. She thinks she's too good for me. He was whining now.
You mean you think you're too good for her. Why, you're not worth her little finger-nail.
I know it, Byron admitted. I'm not. So don't you think it's just as well to let things stand as they are?
Personally, I certainly do think so, Adora averred. As a matter of fact, I advised her to marry Randolph Pettijohn.
The Bolito King!
Himself.
Why, you wouldn't want her to marry a man like that, would you?
Rather any man than a poor thing like you! Her voice was harsh. Rannie's self-made. He's a rough diamond. He isn't educated, but at least he's good and kind. He's a man, she affirmed. He would have made her a good husband. I told her so. She couldn't see it. She turned him down the day she met you.
The day . . .
Yes, at my house on Long Island, and I've always thought you were the reason she turned him down.
That isn't possible. I scarcely saw her that day.
I don't care. I believe it was the reason. Do you know anything about Mary? She's always been noted for her coldness towards men. Then you come along and she reacts like a volcano that has smouldered for years and unexpectedly begins to toss hot rocks into the air. . . . It doesn't seem to me that you are particularly unusual or desirable. Oh, you're good-looking enough, but just a light-weightft, after all. Nevertheless, Mary wants you. She almost murdered Lasca at the Charity Ball. You must know that.
I knew she was jealous.
She loves you, you ape. Anyway, she doesn't want to murder Lasca any longer. All she wants is to have you back. She can't work. She can't sleep. She can't even cry any more. Now, you just chase around and cheer her up.
No! Byron's face was hard.
What!
I won't.
You're not going back to that cheap brown-skin again, are you?
I'm going back to Lasca.
Well, she won't let you in.
I don't believe you.
She's through. Remember I know Lasca. I tell you she's through.
I'm going back, Byron shouted. Nobody can stop me.
For all I care you can go to hell, Adora cried. It would be better for Mary if you do.
I'm going back, he repeated doggedly.
Wait a minute. Olive was speaking. Byron, sitting with his back towards the doorway, had not observed her entrance.
I heard what you said just now, Byron, she went on, and I want to talk to you.
It's no good, Ollie.
No good! Olive's tone was scornful. I wonder, she went on, if you'll ever collect any brains. If it wasn't for Mary, I wouldn't mutter a single peep.
Tell her to forget me.
She can't. It's downright too bad, but she can't. Don't think you've fooled me. I can see the wall over there straight through you. You had to struggle a little in New York, but not very much at that. I know a hundred fellows who have had a harder time and have come through. I've watched you and I know you. You're lazy and soft and conceited. You're weak and touchy and proud and obstinate and bad-tempered. You won't have anything to do with really worth-while people like the Sumners and the Underwoods or the young literary group . . . or Howard . . . because they've got ahead in life while you're a failure. You even resent Mary because she loves you enough to want to help you and so she can't be bothered to lie to you and flatter you. Why, you poor thing you, if I were Mary I'd wait for a muddy day and use you as a doormat!
Like to hear yourself talk, don't you! he cried. Well, just listen to this: I'm going back to Lasca.
I know all about that, Olive replied wearily. I know how long that'll last. Well, she turned to Adora, I suppose we've done all we can. Let him return to his vomit. Her lip curled.
Yes, echoed Adora, let him go back. She lighted a cigarette.
Without a word more, Byron rushed downstairs, drew on his coat, and dashed out of the house.
So this had been atrap! Never in his life had he been so furious. His blood was seething. Damn meddling women! He ran all the way back to Lasca's apartment, a matter of four blocks.
He entered the hallway just too late to catch the ascending elevator. Too impatient to wait for its return, he bounded up the stairs, three at a time, until he stood facing Lasca's door on the fourth landing. Breathless, he pushed the button.
Marie opened the door cautiously.
Mrs. Sartoris has not come back, she announced and was about to close the door in his face when he prevented her by inserting his foot in the opening.
I want to come in and wait, he insisted.
My orders are to keep you out.
Why, my clothes are here!
Harry took your clothes back an hour ago.
My clothes . . . ! By God, I will come in! He forced himself past the maid.
Miss Lasca, screamed Marie, I'm being murdered!
The door leading to the drawing-room was flung violently open. Lasca stood framed in the opening.
How dare you break into my house! she cried. Get out of here!
Falling on his knees before her, he clasped her waist in his arms.
Lasca, he implored her, what have I done?
Her tone was ice. You haven't done anything. You bore me. Get out of here before I have you thrown out.
She struck him in the face. Rising unsteadily to his feet, he stepped backwards. Rage swelled the veins of his temples.
Damn you! he cried. Damn you!
Before he could make a single aggressive movement she had covered him with a revolver.
None of that, she said.
He hesitated.
So, she taunted him, you don't love me enough to want me to kill you! You're a coward as well as a bore, a filthy Nigger coward!
He slunk towards the outer door.
Get out! she went on. Get out and stay out! Marie, tell the boys downstairs never to allow this slimy garbage in the building again.
As the door slammed behind him, he almost collapsed. He was dazed. This was all so unexpected. Last night she had loved him as usual. Now . . . He did not know what had happened or why. He crept slowly down the stairs and out into the sunshine.
Through a blur he saw a limousine drawn up by the kerb before him. He vaguely recalled that it had been there when he entered the building. Approaching the car, he stooped to decipher the initials painted on the door. R. P., he read. R. P.? He tried to think. There was something familiar about these letters. He turned to the chauffeur.
Whose car is this? he demanded.
The fellow regarded him with astonishment.
Why, doan you know dis heah cah? Ebberybody know dis cah. Dis cah, sir—the man drew himself up—dis cah heah et belong to Mr. Randolph Pettijohn.