Faye’s eyes glistened with tears. She picked up a handkerchief from the chair beside her and wiped her eyes and patted delicately at her nostrils. “You’re like my own daughter, Kate,” she said.
“I’m beginning to believe I am. I never knew my mother. She died when I was small.”
Faye drew a deep breath and plunged into the subject.
“Kate, I don’t like you working here.”
“Why not?”
Faye shook her head, trying to find words. “I’m not ashamed. I run a nice house. If I didn’t somebody else might run a bad house. I don’t do anybody any harm. I’m not ashamed.”
“Why should you be?” asked Kate.
“But I don’t like you working. I just don’t like it. You’re sort of my daughter. I don’t like my daughter working.”
“Don’t be a silly, darling,” said Kate. “I have to—here or somewhere else. I told you. I have to have the money.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Of course I do. Where else could I get it?”
“You could be my daughter. You could manage the house. You could take care of things for me and not go upstairs. I’m not always well, you know.”
“I know you’re not, poor darling. But I have to have money.”
“There’s plenty for both of us, Kate. I could give you as much as you make and more, and you’d be worth it.”
Kate shook her head sadly. “I do love you,” she said. “And I wish I could do what you want. But you need your little reserve, and I—well, suppose something should happen to you? No, I must go on working. Do you know, dear, I have five regulars tonight?”
A jar of shock struck Faye. “I don’t want you to work.”
“I have to, Mother.”
The word did it. Faye burst into tears, and Kate sat on the arm of her chair and stroked her cheek and wiped her streaming eyes. The outburst sniffled to a close.
The dusk was settling deeply on the valley. Kate’s face was a glow of lightness under her dark hair. “Now you’re all right. I’ll go and look in on the kitchen and then dress.”
“Kate, can’t you tell your regulars you’re sick?”
“Of course not, Mother.”
“Kate, it’s Wednesday. Probably won’t be anybody in after one o’clock.”
“The Woodmen of the World are having a do.”
“Oh, yes. But on Wednesday—the Woodmen won’t be here after two.”
“What are you getting at?”
“Kate, when you close, you tap on my door. I’ll have a little surprise for you.”
“What kind of a surprise?”
“Oh, a secret surprise! Will you ask the cook to come in as you go by the kitchen?”
“Sounds like a cake surprise.”
“Now don’t ask questions, darling. It’s a surprise.”
Kate kissed her. “What a dear you are, Mother.”
When she had closed the door behind her Kate stood for a moment in the hall. Her fingers caressed her little pointed chin. Her eyes were calm. Then she stretched her arms over her head and strained her body in a luxurious yawn. She ran her hands slowly down her sides from right under her breasts to her hips. Her mouth corners turned up a little, and she moved toward the kitchen.
2
The few regulars drifted in and out and two drummers walked down the Line to look them over, but not a single Woodman of the World showed up. The girls sat yawning in the parlor until two o’clock, waiting.
What kept the Woodmen away was a sad accident. Clarence Monteith had a heart attack right in the middle of the closing ritual and before supper. They laid him out on the carpet and dampened his forehead until the doctor came. Nobody felt like sitting down to the doughnut supper. After Dr. Wilde had arrived and looked Clarence over, the Woodmen made a stretcher by putting flagpoles through the sleeves of two overcoats. On the way home Clarence died, and they had to go for Dr. Wilde again. And by the time they had made plans for the funeral and written the piece for the Salinas Journal, nobody had any heart for a whorehouse.
The next day, when they found out what had happened, the girls all remembered what Ethel had said at ten minutes to two.
“My God!” Ethel had said. “I never heard it so quiet. No music, cat’s got Kate’s tongue. It’s like setting up with a corpse.”
Later Ethel was impressed with having said it—almost as if she knew.
Grace had said, “I wonder what cat’s got Kate’s tongue. Don’t you feel good? Kate—I said, don’t you feel good?”
Kate started. “Oh! I guess I was thinking of something.”
“Well, I’m not,” said Grace. “I’m sleepy. Why don’t we close up? Let’s ask Faye if we can’t lock up. There won’t even be a Chink in tonight. I’m going to ask Faye.”
Kate’s voice cut in on her. “Let Faye alone. She’s not well. We’ll close up at two.”
“That clock’s way wrong,” said Ethel. “What’s the matter with Faye?”
Kate said, “Maybe that’s what I was thinking about. Faye’s not well. I’m worried to death about her. She won’t show it if she can help it.”
“I thought she was all right,” Grace said.
Ethel hit the jackpot again. “Well, she don’t look good to me. She’s got a kind of flush. I noticed it.”
Kate spoke very softly. “Don’t you girls ever let her know I told you. She wouldn’t want you to worry. What a dear she is!”
“Best goddam house I ever hustled,” said Grace.
Alice said, “You better not let her hear you talk words like that.”
“Balls!” said Grace. “She knows all the words.”
“She don’t like to hear them—not from us.”
Kate said patiently, “I want to tell you what happened. I was having tea with her late this afternoon and she fainted dead away. I do wish she’d see a doctor.”
“I noticed she had a kind of bright flush,” Ethel repeated. “That clock’s way wrong but I forget which way.”
Kate said, “You girls go on to bed. I’ll lock up.”
When they were gone Kate went to her room and put on her pretty new print dress that made her look like a little girl. She brushed and braided her hair and let it hang behind in one thick pigtail tied with a little white bow. She patted her cheeks with Florida water. For a moment she hesitated, and then from the top bureau drawer she took a little gold watch that hung from a fleur-de-lis pin. She wrapped it in one of her fine lawn handkerchiefs and went out of the room.