Chapter VII
THE wonderful day, the day for memory, was that on which King took Billee to Coney Island. June had arrived with white dresses, canvas shoes, Palm Beach suits, straw hats and sea yearnings. Billee had telephoned him from somewhere to meet her at Bowling Green at eleven. They would take cars to the Island and come back by boat at ten to Battery Park. Her old lady was off to New England again with the Plymouth Rockers, celebrating an anniversary, and would not return until next day. Her friend, the housemaid, would sit up for her, and the subway wasn’t far. And be sure and meet her or she would die of disappointment; she had never been to Coney Island.
She was wearing something white and simple, and came with a wonder light in her eyes, swinging a little bag gayly up to his face.
“Guess,” she cried, “my one extravagance!”
“Sandwich,” he ventured. Billee screamed:
“Bathing suit, silly!”
“Great heavens! And you can pack it in that?”
“Ought I to have brought a trunk?”
“A trunk? I hate to say it.”
“Don’t.”
Now to King Dubignon was revealed a new Billee. She was the spirit of light and laughter, and the faces of all who saw her that day shone with sympathy and admiration. She was a child out of school, and seeing the world for the first time.
“Poor little girl,” he said within, an ache deep down, “she hasn’t had much fun. Never mind, it’s coming some day.” It was coming that day. It had in fact already arrived.
“King,” breathlessly, after a daring pressure of his hand, “bear with me to-day. I’m simply wild, wild! and not responsible. I’ve heard good news, great news, and it’s killing me with happiness. It’s my great day, you big, handsome, loving boy!—my boy!”
“Keep going, Billee, I’ll never stop you. Am I in on it?”
“Are you? Are you? How could it be good news if you were not?”
He was certain he had never seen anything half as funny as Billee that day, sliding down the “corkscrew,” unless it was Billee trying to navigate the whirling bowl and crawling out on hands and knees, her little jaws set hard and eyes imploring him. For they took in all the features of the Island, did all the undignified stunts, rode the wooden race horses, and flying-jennies, shot the chutes, journeyed through Wonderland, circled the Ferris wheel, shot at targets, threw rings for dolls and balls at grinning “coon” heads, saw the fat woman and alligator boy and the Hawaiian dancers.
The offer of a free trip up and five dollars by the captive balloon man, if they would marry in the air, was promptly accepted by King but spurned by Billee.
Then they ran races on the beach with other carefree couples, built sand houses with little children, ate popcorn, “hot dog” and cotton candy and saw the movies. And Billee drank a pony of beer and lit a cigarette for King.
Once they came across a wild, ragtime dance scene, and Billee screamed with delight. It seemed to be everybody’s frolic.
“Come on, King, I must dance with you!”
“But,” sadly, “it’s the one accomplishment I lack, Billee. All the others I have. My young life was not cast in ragtime circles.”
“Come, sir, come! I’ll teach you!” He went. She said it was easy. It was not easy. “It’s easy” is a fiction of the game. She did not teach him, but among the dancers was a young man, coat buttoned tight across his waist and lapels spread wide and a little felt hat slouched across his northeast temple, who handled himself and partner like a pair of Indian clubs. It was a pleasure to watch him and the little “skirt” he toyed with. His eyes met Billee’s. He left his partner in the middle of the floor, as a matter of course.
“What’s the matter, Bo’?” he said to King. “Can’t little Beauty dance?” King regarded the visitor with amusement. He was too cosmopolitan to take offense. This was New York’s playground.
“Ask her,” he said, ironically.
“Dance, kid?” said the boy cryptically, to Billee.
“Sure!” said Billee, giving her hand. And Billee danced. It was the most wonderful thing, of the kind, King had ever seen. The band was playing “Don’t Blame Me for What Happens in the Moonlight,” and the two figures, threading a marvelous path through the crowd, swayed, dipped, hesitated, glided and whirled in perfect rhythm. Billee’s face glowed with excitement, her gentian eyes half closed harbored all the fun in the world. Passing King, she called:
“Going some, friend!” Breathless, at length, she joined him.
“T’anks, lady,” said the boy, “you are sure some stepper.”
“Same here,” said Billee, politely. Billee was learning slang easily. The boy took one long look at her, his soul in his eyes.
“Gee!” he said, and turned away.
“Come, let’s get out of this,” urged King. He saw other young men moving towards them. “If that boy who put his arm around you wasn’t Bowery he passes there every day.”
“What of it? He’s all American. I like his independence.”
“So do I,” said King. “On reflection, I believe I was a little jealous.”
“He is the most direct young man I ever met. I told him I was married and he promptly called me a liar.”
Billee found a tired woman sitting in the sand, a tousled baby in her lap. She dropped down by her.
“Let me hold him, a little, won’t you, please?” The mother’s gaze rested on her face but an instant.
“Guess I will,” she said. “I want to go somewhere and eat something. My husband hasn’t come yet.” Billee took the baby, whose great eyes questioned her.
“Look, King, what beauty-brown eyes!”
“Mind your dress,” he cautioned. “He’s pretty well messed up.”
“I don’t care. I never had a chance to be a baby in the sand and smear my nose. I love him, King, just as he is.” She cuddled him up in her arms and hummed a lullaby, of the kind all women inherit and all babies understand. He was asleep when the mother came back. King’s eyes were in the sunset. One rose cloud had shaped itself into a cottage and there was a gate and a girl leaning over—then Billee woke him.
And the great round moon came up—the moon that made the moonlight where things happened that people were not to be blamed for. And Billee challenged King for a swim.
In rented bath suit, King waited for her. She came, such a vision of loveliness as Coney Island in all its glory had seldom if ever beheld. For Billee had the light, slender figure of Ariel and was clad in the conventional two-piece suit of a boy.
“Billee! For heaven’s sake, go back! or get in the water quick!”
“Why, what’s the matter, King?” she said, puzzled, and then glancing down. “It is a little short and tight, but the girl in the store said it would fit. I couldn’t try it on. You ought to know that.”
“But it’s a boy’s suit!”
“Of course. Did you think I was going to put on one of those skirt things to swim in? I have too much sense for that. I’m going swimming, not promenading, King. And I’m surprised at you. That’s false modesty. If you are going to be ugly and—and—and look at me like I was name—name—named William, and spoil my holiday—” Her voice began to tremble.
“It’s all right, Billee. Of course it isn’t your fault—ever. Come on, let’s get in the water.”
Once in the water, King’s amazement was complete, and delight unbounded. Billee could not only swim, but swim along with him. It takes a swimmer to keep along with a Georgia islander in salt water. Her far-reaching overhand and under stroke was wonderfully graceful and effective. She glided through the water with that seal-like ease so seldom seen, but oftener in woman than in man. King was beside her, measuring stroke with stroke, her radiant face flashing up in the moonlight, her cheek level with the water.
“How did you learn that, girl? It’s wonderful! wonderful!” he shouted.
“A woman, one of the world’s great swimmers, taught me,” she said, “and to wear this kind of suit. Come, let’s get in deep water.” King was already on his way to deep water. Presently he felt himself falling behind a little, and then he realized that as long as it lasted her speed was more than equal to his best.
“Great, isn’t it, King?” she breathed softly. “Friend or enemy, the ocean is always great.”
Their course was straight out; the last bather was passed.
“Careful, sir,” called a lifeguard, “the tide’ll be turning soon.”
“Right O!” sang King. “But old Father Atlantic and I are chums!”
“Show me how you float,” said Billee, resting on slow strokes, “I could never learn to float. My head will go under!” King rolled over on his back and stretched his arms ahead. He lay like a piece of driftwood, pointing seaward. Wave after wave lifted him; combers broke over, but still the figure floated on without effort of its own. She decided to try it once more. It seemed so easy, and so absurd that he could do it without effort and she fail.
But she only succeeded in getting thoroughly weary. Try as she might, her little head would sink. Then a big comber found her cross-wise in the trough of the sea and proceeded to roll and pound her unmercifully and stand her on her head. She came up gasping from an unknown depth, and struggled frantically. King heard a smothered cry.
“Steady, Billee!” he yelled. “Coming! Coming!” His arms literally tore the resisting water from his path. She caught his shoulder with one hand, gasping. He had turned instantly on his back, prepared for the struggle.
“Rest your weight on me, Billee!—both hands!—both hands!” he shouted. (You have to be positive with panicky people.) “Let your body float free!”
“Help me, King—I’m—I’m—”
“Steady, girl! Are you really all in?”
“So far”—she choked, “but I’m—I’m—” Gurgle.
“No, you’re not!”
“I am!—I am!—I am!—Oh!—Oh!—”
“Don’t lose your nerve, child!”
“Nerve!” screamed Billee, “it isn’t my nerve!—I’m losing!—I’m losing—” But water filled her mouth.
“What? What?”
“King!—string—come loose! I’m—I’m losin—!” (Shriek.) “Most gone! King, you’ve got—got to tie—that—that—string! You’ve got to! Got to! Got to!”
Woman’s wail on lonely ocean! Saddest sound in the world.
“Then-rest-both-hands-on-my-shoulders!” he said grimly, setting his jaws hard.
“I can’t—I can’t—I can’t rest—but one! I’m holding the string! Oh, King! hurry—they’re most—”
“Steady now, Billee! Hold fast! Steady!”
And King tied the string!
For an age the great ocean had swallowed him up. But he tied the string!
Billee’s face went down on his breast when he recovered breath. And there it stuck.
“Don’t worry, Billee. It’s all right.” Billee was not worrying. She was laughing and choking and gurgling. Presently came a note of alarm:
“King.” Her cheek was against his breast.
“Yes.”
“Your heart is racing—just racing. Swimming isn’t good for you. It might stop!”
“Entitled to stop,” he said. “Strong heart to stand this wild night at sea.” And then, gently, “Beating only for you now, Billee.” Silence again. Then her whisper:
“King, you awake?”
“Don’t know, Billee. Hope so.”
“Was this the way you saved the little girl?”
“Yes.”
“Cheek right here, where mine is?”
“Yes.”
“Poor little kid! I wonder if she remembers! Hand on your shoulder, like mine?”
“Yes.”
“King, love her, please! I hate to think of that little, lonesome girl, floating around with you there—and maybe loving you always—and you forgetting her!”
“Always loved her, Billee. Always shall. Loved her on the train coming up from Georgia with the old nurse. I had left my one little sister sleeping under the liveoaks. She looked like her. Went out on the deck that night, not to see the lights—I was afraid she might fall in the water.”
“Oh!—Oh!—Oh!” wailed Billee.
“Why, what’s the matter?”
“Cry—cry—crying—a little, I guess, King.”
“Don’t cry.”
“But it breaks—my heart!”
“Why, what is it?” Silence. And then:
“Floating around, like this, King. It’s awful! Floating around in the ocean, this a-way. And no chaperone!”
“Except the moon.”
“And not—engaged, even!”
“Awful, Billee!”
“King, can you float with only one hand behind you, like you did that night?”
“Yes, Beautiful, without either.”
“Lend me one—up here, please—the left one.” He gave her the hand, much puzzled. Slipping from his finger the little circlet of gold, she placed it on her own, in silence. And in silence her cheek lay again on his breast.
“Billee,” he whispered, in awe, “Billee!” Then she lifted herself a little and Father Ocean, with a deep intake of breath, lifted her a little more. Only her finger tips touched his shoulders; her body floated free. She hovered over him as Psyche over the sleeping god, her lips, one moment, on his: “Just sweethearts,” she whispered, and was gone.
King never forgot the picture that followed. Try as he might, he could not overtake her. Into and out of the waves, over and under, she fled, a moonbeam, a silver fish. Once, for a single, marvelous moment, she sprung half out of the foam crest of a giant roller, her face turned back, her fallen hair strewn around it. A hand was lifted, beckoning. Then, a white flash, and down the slope beyond she vanished.
“The ideal!” he murmured, “the ideal!” He followed. He had been following all his life.