Pearl couldn't speak. The thing she depended on had been suddenly swept away from her. She wanted to cry—she couldn't. She wanted to scream—she couldn't do that. She was too numb to even think much. Harry, who she had loved, and whom she thought loved her, had given her the cold freeze-out. She drank her whiskey—it did no good—water would have had the same effect now—nothing really mattered. She and Mickey wandered from bar to bar until closing time of the bridge.
"Do you want to come out to my place tonight, Pearl, honey? You are always welcome," asked Mickey.
"I guess so," answered Pearl, "but let's go to the State's Cafe before we go home—I want a sandwich."
"Do you think it's best to go to the States, dear?"
"Sure, I'll be all right."
"Let's go."
They arrived at the States at the height of the merriment. The last of the crowd had gathered there before going home with each other. Pearl and Mickey came in. As they sat down, across the aisle sat Harry and a little blonde who had just come to town. He looked over to their table, smiled and waved, and went on with his talk to his partner.
Pearl began to laugh—not a hysterical laugh, but one filled with mirth. "Who in this Goddam joint has a drink," she called as she rose from the table. Several men rushed to her aid with open bottles; she took a drink from them all, and so did Mickey. She was gay, nothing mattered now—have as much fun as possible. Ribald songs were sung by her and the best of dirty stories came to her mind. The crowd was so entertained it wouldn't leave.
"Do you want to invite them all out to the house?" whispered Mickey.
"Sure," answered Pearl. "Listen, gang—get all your cars, and let's get going for a hell of a good time out to Mickey's," as she jumped off the table into the arms of the nearest man.