“Oh, let’s drop it—you never pay any attention to what I say,” she replied. “I’m just looking on—don’t mind me.”
“Well, see that yuh don’t do nothin’ but look,” her father admonished. “You’ve been havin’ too damn much to say, these days.”
Blanche repressed her irritation and retired to prepare for her night’s engagement. She was to meet a boy named Fred Roper at the corner drug store, and hints of coming gayety strove to dispel her darker feelings. She’d get away from her family some time, even if she had to wind up by marrying a hunchback with one eye, never fear, but in the meantime there was nothing that she could do. Almost unconsciously, she had begun to classify the members of her family in general ways that were far from complimentary. Her mother was a weak, abused woman; her father was brainless, and conceited, and bossy; Harry was an ill-tempered bully and gangster; Mabel thought of nothing but deceiving men and landing a wealthy one; and Phil was afraid of his shadow, and never taking sides. Still, they were her family, and it was necessary to “stick up” for them—a great deal to other people and even a little to herself—and in spite of their faults they did love each other, and they were generous to each other, and, after all, they were no worse than most of the people in the world, as far as she could see. She would always be loyal to them, sure, but she did want to get off by herself, and be independent, and not bear the brunt of their orders, and displeasures, and knaveries, and to achieve this she would probably have to pay the penalty of marrying some man whom she did not love, but who could comfortably provide for her. What could she do herself—she had no particular talent or ability (she was getting wise to that), and it seemed to be a toss-up between working like a Turk and doing more as she pleased in a home of her own. She would never accept any large sums of money from her family, even if her brother’s dishonest schemes should succeed, because she would never be able to feel right about it—she didn’t want money that was “dirty” and not her own.
Her mood was unduly reckless as she walked down Ninth Avenue to meet her “boy-friend,” for she had a reaction to “forget the whole thing” for the night, at least. In her light brown coat, thinly trimmed with cheap white rabbit-fur at the bottom and top, and her short black and lavender crêpe-de-chine dress, and the round, gray hat snugly fitting over her bobbed hair, she had the self-contained, jauntily ordinary look of scores of other girls tripping down the street. Her escort of the evening, Fred Roper, was a pimply-faced, stocky youth, with sandy hair and lascivious eyes. He dressed in expensive gray-checked suits, and wore a narrow-brimmed, black derby hat, and regarded himself as one of the Beau Brummells of the neighborhood. He worked on and off as a clerk in a Ninth Avenue cigar store, but his main passion and source of revenue was playing the races, and his financial state varied from hundreds of dollars on one week to being “broke” and borrowing money on the next. On this night he had “cleaned up” on a ten-to-one shot at Belmont Park, and he had the truculent swagger of the successful and not yet hardened gambler, who feels that he is the darling of chance and need only lift a finger to cow anything in the world. Blanche considered him to be an aimless fool—one of the hordes of bozoes who were always trying to get something for nothing—but since he was willing to spend money freely for her entertainment, she saw no reason for refusing to accompany him now and then. Also, he was a good dancer, and so far had never sought to do more than kiss her—a contact which always had to be endured as a payment for your evening’s fun. She knew, of course, that he was “laying for her,” and would sooner or later attempt to seduce her, but that was the element of lurking risk that prevented such occurrences from becoming too stale and peaceful—it gave you the watchful tingle, and the sought-after feeling, that established your feminine importance, even though you disdained the man in question and had no intention of responding to him.
“’Lo, Blanche, how’s the girlie?” he asked, when she had walked up to him at the drug-store entrance.
“Fine as silk,” she answered.
They stepped to the curb-stone and looked for an empty taxicab among those that rolled by.
“What d’you wanna do to-night?” he asked.
“Well, let’s see, I guess I’d better leave you car-fare,” said Blanche, impudently.
“I can’t laugh to-night, my lip hurts,” he responded. “I raked in a coupla hundred on the fifth race to-day, so don’t let that part of it worry you none.”