The voice at Johnnywater

by B. M. Bower

“I think it’s ten o’clock, Gary Marshall, and I’ve said what I have to say and there’s no argument, because I simply won’t argue. I suppose you’ll need sleep if you still have to be at the studio at seven o’clock in the morning so that you can get into your painted eyebrows and painted eyelashes and painted lips for the day’s smirk.”

Gary heaved himself out of his chair and reached for his hat, forgetting to observe subconsciously how effectively he did it. Patricia’s mental surgery had driven the lance deep into his pride and self-esteem, which in a handsome young man of twenty-four is quite as sensitive to pain as an eyeball. Patricia had omitted the mental anesthetic of a little flattery, and she had twisted the knife sickeningly. Painted eyelashes and painted lips nauseated Gary quite suddenly; but scarcely more than did the thought of that ranch of a hundred cattle in a Nevada desert, which Patricia had beggared herself to buy.

“Well, good night, Pat. I must be going. Awfully pleasant evening—great little dinner and all that. I wish you all kinds of luck with your cattle ranch. ’Bye.”

Patricia did not believe that he would go like that. She thought he was merely bluffing. She did not so much as move a finger until he had shut the door rather decisively behind him and she heard his feet striking firmly on the cement walk that led to the street.

A slight chill of foreboding quivered along her spine as the footsteps sounded fainter and fainter down the pavement. She had known Gary Marshall for three years and had worn a half-carat diamond for six months. She had argued with him for hours; they had quarreled furiously at times, and he had registered anger, indignation, arrogance and hurt pride in several effective forms. But she had never before seen him behave in just this manner.

Of course he would hate that little slam of hers about the paint and the profile, she told herself hearteningly. She had struck deliberately at his pride and his vanity, though in justice she was compelled to confess to herself that Gary had very little vanity for a man so good-looking as he was. She had wanted him to hate what she said, so that he would be forced to give up the movie life which she hated. Still, his sudden going startled her considerably.

It occurred to her later that he had absent-mindedly carried off her papers. She remembered how he had stuffed them into his coat pocket—just as if they were his and didn’t amount to much anyway—while the argument was going on. Well, since he had taken them away with him he would have to return them, no matter how mad he was; and in the meantime it might do him good to read them over again. He couldn’t help seeing how she had burned her financial bridges behind her—for his sake.

Patricia brushed her eyes impatiently with her fingers and sighed. In a moment she pinned on an apron and attacked the dinner dishes savagely, wondering why women are such fools as to fall in love with a man, and then worry themselves into wrinkles over his shortcomings. Six months ago, Gary Marshall had not owned a fault to his name. Now, her whole heart was set upon eradicating faults which she had discovered.

“He shall not be spoiled—if I have to quarrel with him every day! There’s something more to him than that mop of wavy brown hair that won’t behave, and those straight eyebrows that won’t behave either, but actually talk at you—and those eyes—— That darned leading girl can’t make me believe it’s all acting, when she rolls her eyes up at him and snuggles against his shoulder. That’s my shoulder! And Gary says selling your profile is like selling your fingers! It might be—if the boss bought my fingers to kiss! And I don’t care! It was positively indecent, the way Gary kissed that girl in his last picture. If he wasn’t such a dear——”

Patricia snuffled a bit while she scraped chicken gravy off a plate. Gary’s plate. “Let him sulk. He’ll come back when he cools off. And he’ll have to give in and go to Nevada. He’ll never see me lose five thousand dollars. And those nasty little movie queens can find somebody else to roll up their eyes at. Oh, darn!”