The Plastic Age · Chapter 22 (2/3)

The couples moved slowly off the floor, the pounding of the drums still in their ears and in their blood; some of them sought the fraternity booths; some of the girls retired to their dressing-room, perhaps to have another drink; many of the men went outside for a smoke and to tip a flask upward. Through the noise, the sex-madness, the half-drunken dancers, moved men and women quite sober, the men vainly trying to shield the women from contact with anyone who was drunk. There was an angry light in those men’s eyes, but most of them said nothing, merely kept close to their partners, ready to defend them from any too assertive friend.

Again the music, again the tom-tom of the drums. On and on for hours. A man “passed out cold” and had to be carried from the gymnasium. A girl got a “laughing jag” and shrieked with idiotic laughter until her partner managed to lead her protesting off the floor. On and on, the constant rhythmic wailing of the fiddles, syncopated passion screaming with lust, the drums, horribly primitive; drunken embraces.⁠ ⁠… “Oh, those Wabash Blues⁠—I know I got my dues⁠—A lonesome soul am I⁠—I feel that I could die.⁠ ⁠…” Blues, sobbing, despairing blues.⁠ ⁠… Orgiastic music⁠—beautiful, hideous! “Candle light that gleams⁠—Haunts me in my dreams.⁠ ⁠…” The drums boom, boom, boom, booming⁠—“I’ll pack my walking shoes, to lose⁠—those Wa-bash Blues.⁠ ⁠…”

Hour after hour⁠—on and on. Flushed faces, breaths hot with passion and whisky.⁠ ⁠… Pretty girls, cool and sober, dancing with men who held them with drunken lasciviousness; sober men hating the whisky breaths of the girls.⁠ ⁠… On and on, the drunken carnival to maddening music⁠—the passion, the lust.

Both Hugh and Cynthia were drinking, and by midnight both of them were drunk, too drunk any longer to think clearly. As they danced, Hugh was aware of nothing but Cynthia’s body, her firm young body close to his. His blood beat with the pounding of the drums. He held her tighter and tighter⁠—the gymnasium, the other couples, a swaying mist before his eyes.

When the dance ended, Cynthia whispered huskily, “Ta-take me somewhere, Hugh.”

Strangely enough, he got the significance of her words at once. His blood raced, and he staggered so crazily that Cynthia had to hold him by the arm.

“Sure⁠—sure; I’ll⁠—I’ll ta-take you some-somewhere. I⁠—I, too, Cyntheea.”

They walked unevenly out of the gymnasium, down the steps, and through the crowd of smokers standing outside. Hardly aware of what he was doing, Hugh led Cynthia to Keller Hall, which was not more than fifty yards distant.

He took a flask out of his pocket. “Jush one more drink,” he said thickly and emptied the bottle. Then, holding Cynthia desperately by the arm, he opened the door of Keller Hall and stumbled with her up the stairs to Norry Parker’s room. Fortunately the hallways were deserted, and no one saw them. The door was unlocked, and Hugh, after searching blindly for the switch, finally clicked on the lights and mechanically closed the door behind him.

He was very dizzy. He wanted another drink⁠—and he wanted Cynthia. He put his arms around her and pulled her drunkenly to him. The door of one of the bedrooms opened, and Norry Parker stood watching them. He had spent the evening at the home of a musical professor and had returned to his room only a few minutes before. His face went white when he saw the embracing couple.

“Hugh!” he said sharply.

Hugh and Cynthia, still clinging to each other, looked at him. Slowly Cynthia took her arms from around Hugh’s neck and forced herself from his embrace. Norry disappeared into his room and came out a minute later with his coat on; he had just begun to undress when he had heard a noise in the study.

“I’ll see you home, Cynthia,” he said quietly. He took her arm and led her out of the room⁠—and locked the door behind him. Hugh stared at them blankly, swaying slightly, completely befuddled. Cynthia went with Norry willingly enough, leaning heavily on his arm and occasionally sniffing.

When he returned to his room, Hugh was sitting on the floor staring at a photograph of Norry’s mother. He had been staring at it for ten minutes, holding it first at arm’s length and then drawing it closer and closer to him. No matter where he held it, he could not see what it was⁠—and he was determined to see it.

Norry walked up to him and reached for the photograph.

“Give me that,” he said curtly. “Take your hands on my mother’s picture.”

“It’s not,” Hugh exclaimed angrily; “it’s not. It’s my musher, my own mu-musher⁠—my, my own dear musher. Oh, oh!”

He slumped down in a heap and began to sob bitterly, muttering, “Musher, musher, musher.”

Norry was angry. The whole scene was revolting to him. His best friend was a disgusting sight, apparently not much better than a gibbering idiot. And Hugh had shamefully abused his hospitality. Norry was no longer gentle and boyish; he was bitterly disillusioned.

“Get up,” he said briefly. “Get up and go to bed.”

“Tha’s my musher. You said it wasn’t my⁠—my musher.” Hugh looked up, his face wet with maudlin tears.

Norry leaned over and snatched the picture from him. “Take your dirty hands off of that,” he snapped. “Get up and go to bed.”

“Tha’s my musher.” Hugh was gently persistent.

“It’s not your mother. You make me sick. Go to bed.” Norry tugged at Hugh’s arm impotently; Hugh simply sat limp, a dead weight.

Norry’s gray eyes narrowed. He took a glass, filled it with cold water in the bedroom, and then deliberately dashed the water into Hugh’s face.

Then he repeated the performance.

Hugh shook his head and rubbed his hands wonderingly over his face. “I’m no good,” he said almost clearly. “I’m no good.”

“You certainly aren’t. Come on; get up and go to bed.” Again Norry tugged at his arm, and this time Hugh, clinging clumsily to the edge of the table by which he was sitting, staggered to his feet.

“I’m a blot,” he declared mournfully; “I’m no good, Norry. I’m an⁠—an excreeshence, an ex-cree-shence, tha’s what I am.”

“Something of the sort,” Norry agreed in disgust. “Here, let me take off your coat.”

“Leave my coat alone.” He pulled himself away from Norry. “I’m no good. I’m an ex-cree-shence. I’m goin’ t’ commit suicide; tha’s what I’m goin’ t’ do. Nobody’ll care ’cept my musher, and she wouldn’t either if she knew me. Oh, oh, I wish I didn’t use a shafety-razor. I’ll tell you what to do, Norry.” He clung pleadingly to Norry’s arm and begged with passionate intensity. “You go over to Harry King’s room. He’s got a re-re⁠—a pistol. You get it for me and I’ll put it right here⁠—” he touched his temple awkwardly⁠—“and I’ll⁠—I’ll blow my damn brains out. I’m a blot, Norry; I’m an ex-cree-shence.”

Norry shook him. “Shut up. You’ve got to go to bed. You’re drunk.”

“I’m sick. I’m an ex-cree-shence.” The room was whizzing rapidly around Hugh, and he clung hysterically to Norry. Finally he permitted himself to be led into the bedroom and undressed, still moaning that he was an “ex-cree-shence.”

The bed pitched. He lay on his right side, clutching the covers in terror. He turned over on his back. Still the bed swung up and down sickeningly. Then he twisted over to his left side, and the bed suddenly swung into rest, almost stable. In a few minutes he was sound asleep.

He cut chapel and his two classes the next morning, one at nine and the other at ten o’clock; in fact, it was nearly eleven when he awoke. His head was splitting with pain, his tongue was furry, and his mouth tasted like bilge-water. He made wry faces, passed his thick tongue around his dry mouth⁠—oh, so damnably dry!⁠—and pressed the palms of his hands to his pounding temples. He craved a drink of cold water, but he was afraid to get out of bed. He felt pathetically weak and dizzy.

Norry walked into the room and stood quietly looking at him.

“Get me a drink, Norry, please,” Hugh begged.

“I’m parched.” He rolled over. “Ouch! God, how my head aches!”

Norry brought him the drink, but nothing less than three glasses even began to satisfy Hugh. Then, still saying nothing, Norry put a cold compress on Hugh’s hot forehead.

“Thanks, Norry old man. That’s awfully damn good of you.”

Norry walked out of the room, and Hugh quickly fell into a light sleep. An hour later he woke up, quite unaware of the fact that Norry had changed the cold compress three times. The nap had refreshed him. He still felt weak and faint; but his head no longer throbbed, and his throat was less dry.

“Norry,” he called feebly.

“Yes?” Norry stood in the doorway. “Feeling better?”

“Yes, some. Come sit down on the bed. I want to talk to you. But get me another drink first, please. My mouth tastes like burnt rubber.”

Norry gave him the drink and then sat down on the edge of the bed, silently waiting.

“I’m awfully ashamed of myself, old man,” Hugh began. “I⁠—I don’t know what to say. I can’t remember much what happened. I remember bringing Cynthia up here and you coming in and then⁠—well, I somehow can’t remember anything after that. What did you do?”

“I took Cynthia home and then came back and put you to bed.” Norry gazed at the floor and spoke softly.

“You took Cynthia home?”

“Of course.”

Hugh stared at him in awe. “But if you’d been seen with her in the dorm, you’d have been fired from college.”

“Nobody saw us. It’s all right.”

Hugh wanted to cry. “Oh, Lord, Norry, you’re white,” he exclaimed. “The whitest fellow that ever lived. You took that chance for me.”

“That’s all right.” Norry was painfully embarrassed.

“And I’m such a rotter. You⁠—you know what we came up here for?”

“I can guess.” Norry’s glance still rested on the floor. He spoke hardly above a whisper.

“Nothing happened. I swear it, Norry. I meant to⁠—but⁠—but you came⁠—thank God! I was awfully soused. I guess you think I’m rotten, Norry. I suppose I am. I don’t know how I could treat you this way. Are you awfully angry?”

“I was last night,” Norry replied honestly, “but I’m not this morning. I’m just terribly disappointed. I understand, I guess; I’m human, too⁠—but I’m disappointed. I can’t forget the way you looked.”

“Don’t!” Hugh cried. “Please don’t, Norry. I⁠—I can’t stand it if you talk that way. I’m so damned ashamed. Please forgive me.”

Norry was very near to tears. “Of course, I forgive you,” he whispered, “but I hope you won’t do it again.”

“I won’t, Norry. I promise you. Oh, God, I’m no good. That’s twice I’ve been stopped by an accident. I’ll go straight now, though; I promise you.”

Norry stood up. “It’s nearly noon,” he said more naturally. “Cynthia will be wondering where you are.”

“Cynthia! Oh, Norry, how can I face her?”

“You’ve got to,” said the young moralist firmly.

“I suppose so,” the sinner agreed, his voice miserably lugubrious. “God!”

After three cups of coffee, however, the task did not seem so impossible. Hugh entered the Nu Delta house with a fairly jaunty air and greeted the men and women easily enough. His heart skipped a beat when he saw Cynthia standing in the far corner of the living-room. She was wearing her scarlet hat and blue suit.

She saved him the embarrassment of opening the conversation. “Come into the library,” she said softly. “I want to speak to you.”

Wondering and rather frightened, he followed her.

“I’m going home this afternoon,” she began. “I’ve got everything packed, and I’ve told everybody that I don’t feel very well.”

“You aren’t sick?” he asked, really worried.

“Of course not, but I had to say something. The train leaves in an hour or two, and I want to have a talk with you before I go.”

“But hang it, Cynthia, think of what you’re missing. There’s a baseball game with Raleigh this afternoon, a tea-dance in the Union after that, the Musical Clubs concert this evening⁠—I sing with the Glee club and Norry’s going to play a solo, and I’m in the Banjo Club, too⁠—and we are going to have a farewell dance at the house after the concert.” Hugh pleaded earnestly; but somehow down in his heart he wished that she wouldn’t stay.

“I know, but I’ve got to go. Let’s go somewhere out in the woods where we can talk without being disturbed.”

Still protesting, he led her out of the house, across the campus, past the lake, and into the woods. Finally they sat down on a smooth rock.

“I’m awfully sorry to bust up your party, Hugh,” Cynthia began slowly, “but I’ve been doing some thinking, and I’ve just got to beat it.” She paused a moment and then looked him square in the eyes. “Do you love me?”

For an instant Hugh’s eyes dropped, and then he looked up and lied like a gentleman. “Yes,” he said simply; “I love you, Cynthia.”

She smiled almost wearily and shook her head. “You are a good egg, Hugh. It was white of you to say that, but I know that you don’t love me. You did yesterday, but you don’t now. Do you realize that you haven’t asked to kiss me today?”

Hugh flushed and stammered: “I⁠—I’ve got an awful hangover, Cynthia. I feel rotten.”

“Yes, I know, but that isn’t why you didn’t want to kiss me. I know all about it. Listen, Hugh.” She faced him bravely. “I’ve been running with a fast crowd for three years, and I’ve learned a lot about fellows; and most of ’em that I’ve known weren’t your kind. How old are you?”

“Twenty-one in a couple of months.”

“I’m twenty and lots wiser about some things than you are. I’ve been crazy about you⁠—I guess I am kinda yet⁠—and I know that you thought you were in love with me. I wanted you to have hold of me all the time. That’s all that mattered. It was⁠—was your body, Hugh. You’re sweet and fine, and I respect you, but I’m not the kid for you to run around with. I’m too fast. I woke up early this morning, and I’ve done a lot of thinking since. You know what we came near doing last night? Well, that’s all we want each other for. We’re not in love.”

A phrase from the bull sessions rushed into Hugh’s mind. “You mean⁠—sex attraction?” he asked in some embarrassment. He felt weak and tired. He seemed to be listening to Cynthia in a dream. Nothing was real⁠—and everything was a little sad.

“Yes, that’s it⁠—and, oh, Hugh, somehow I don’t want that with you. We’re not the same kind at all. I used to think that when I got your letters. Sometimes I hardly understood them, but I’d close my eyes and see you so strong and blond and clean, and I’d imagine you were holding me tight⁠—and⁠—and then I was happy. I guess I did kinda love you, but we’ve spoiled it.” She wanted desperately to cry but bit her lip and held back her tears.

“I think I know what you mean, Cynthia,” Hugh said softly. “I don’t know much about love and sex attraction and that sort of thing, but I know that I was happier kissing you than I’ve ever been in my life. I⁠—I wish that last night hadn’t happened. I hate myself.”

“You needn’t. It was more my fault than yours. I’m a pretty bad egg, I guess; and the booze and you holding me was too much. I hate myself, too. I’ve spoiled the nicest thing that ever happened to me.” She looked up at him, her eyes bright with tears. “I did love you, Hugh. I loved you as much as I could love anyone.”

Hugh put his arms around her and drew her to him. Then he bent his head and kissed her gently. There was no passion in his embrace, but there was infinite tenderness. He felt spiritually and physically weak, as if all his emotional resources had been quite spent.

“I think that I love you more than I ever did before,” he whispered.

If he had shown any passion, if there had been any warmth in his kiss, Cynthia might have believed him, but she was aware only of his gentleness. She pushed him back and drew out of his arms.

“No,” she said sharply; “you don’t love me. You’re just sorry for me.⁠ ⁠… You’re just kind.”

Hugh had read “Marpessa” many times, and a line from it came to make her attitude clear:

“thou wouldst grow kind;

Most bitter to a woman that was loved.”

“Oh, I don’t know; I don’t know,” he said miserably. “Let’s not call everything off now, Cynthia. Let’s wait a while.”