They went to Savannah, to the live-oaks and palmettoes and quiet old squares.
But she did not rest. Always she brooded about the unleashed brutality of their first night on the steamer, the strong, inescapable man-smell of his neck and shoulders, the boisterous jokes he kept telling her.
He insisted on their staying at a commercial hotel at Savannah. Whenever she went to lie down, which was frequently, he played poker and drank highballs. He tried in his sincerest way to amuse her. He took her to theaters, restaurants, road-houses. He arranged a three days’ hunting-trip, with a darky cook. He hired motor-boats and motor-cars and told her every “here’s a new one,” that he heard. But she dreaded his casual-seeming suggestions that she drink plenty of champagne; dreaded his complaints, whiney as a small boy, “Come now, Unie, show a little fire. I tell you a fellow’s got a right to expect it at this time.” She dreaded his frankness of undressing, of shaving; dreaded his occasional irritated protests of “Don’t be a finicking, romantic school-miss. I may not wear silk underclo’ and perfume myself like some bum actor, but I’m a regular guy”; dreaded being alone with him; dreaded always the memory of that first cataclysmic night of their marriage; and mourned, as in secret, for year on year, thousands of women do mourn. “Oh, I wouldn’t care now if he had just been gentle, been considerate.... Oh, Ed is good; he does mean to care for me and give me a good time, but—”
When they returned to New York, Mr. Schwirtz said, robustly: “Well, little old trip made consid’able hole in my wad. I’m clean busted. Down to one hundred bucks in the bank.”
“Why, I thought you were several thousand ahead!”
“Oh—oh! I lost most of that in a little flyer on stocks—thought I’d make a killing, and got turned into lamb-chops; tried to recoup my losses on that damn flying-machine, passenger-carrying game that that —— —— —— —— let me in for. Never mind, little sister; we’ll start saving now. And it was worth it. Some trip, eh? You enjoyed it, didn’t you—after the first couple days, while you were seasick? You’ll get over all your fool, girly-girly notions now. Women always are like that. I remember the first missus was, too.... And maybe a few other skirts, though I guess I hadn’t better tell no tales outa school on little old Eddie Schwirtz, eh? Ha, ha!... Course you high-strung virgin kind of shemales take some time to learn to get over your choosey, finicky ways. But, Lord love you! I don’t mind that much. Never could stand for these rough-necks that claim they’d rather have a good, healthy walloping country wench than a nice, refined city lady. Why, I like refinement! Yes, sir, I sure do!... Well, it sure was some trip. Guess we won’t forget it in a hurry, eh? Sure is nice to rub up against some Southern swells like we did that night at the Avocado Club. And that live bunch of salesmen. Gosh! Say, I’ll never forget that Jock Sanderson. He was a comical cuss, eh? That story of his—”
“No,” said Una, “I’ll never forget the trip.”
But she tried to keep the frenzy out of her voice. The frenzy was dying, as so much of her was dying. She hadn’t realized a woman can die so many times and still live. Dead had her heart been at Pemberton’s, yet it had secreted enough life to suffer horribly now, when it was again being mauled to death.
And she wanted to spare this man.
She realized that poor Ed Schwirtz, puttering about their temporary room in a side-street family hotel, yawning and scratching his head, and presumably comfortable in suspenders over a woolen undershirt—she realized that he treasured a joyous memory of their Savannah diversions.