Gather Yourselves Together Page 3

  “A little.”

  “I thought you knew all the women here.”

  “I’ve heard the name. That’s all.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “Nothing in particular.”

  Suddenly there was a deep roar outside the window A heavy truck was starting up. As they watched, a load of workmen drove by, down the road, along the rim of the Company property and out through the gate. Then the truck was lost into the darkness. They could still hear its rumble for a time after it had disappeared, going away down the highway.

  “What was that?” Carl said nervously.

  “The workmen. I didn’t think they’d finish up so fast. I guess they were in a hurry to get out of here.”

  “You mean there’s just the three of us left?”

  Verne nodded.

  “Good Lord. Already. Things happen fast.” Carl moved around the office. “Just us. Where is this Barbara Mahler? I’d like to meet her and see what she’s like.”

  “She was around here earlier. She’ll turn up, before the week’s over. She has plenty of time.”

  Carl fidgeted. He paced restlessly, rubbing his hands together. “Lord, it’s bleak in here.”

  “I guess so.” Verne sat down at the table again.

  “You wouldn’t mind if I went and looked around for her, would you?” Carl asked.

  “Why?”

  “I’m curious to see what she’s like.”

  Verne sighed. “Go ahead, if you want.”

  “Thanks.” Carl took hold of the doorknob. “After all, we’ll be seeing a lot of each other, the next couple of weeks.” He opened the door and went outside, onto the dark porch.

  “Goodbye,” Verne said listlessly. He listened to Carl’s footsteps die away down the gravel path.

  Barbara Mahler. Well, he wasn’t curious. He knew what she looked like. And a lot more besides. Verne lit a cigarette, putting his feet up on the table. Barbara—what an irony. Of all the people in the world! He grinned wryly. It almost seemed intentional. The next week was going to be interesting. How would she act? Could she keep pretending that—

  But of course, it had been a long time. Maybe she had really forgotten.

  When had he first met her? It was in Castle, sometime or other. Years, years ago. Castle. His thoughts began to drift. What an irony! She had been at some kind of a party. He had met her at a party. Sitting on a chair. No: a couch.

  Sitting on a couch. And he had got her a drink.

  Verne Tildon looked down at the girl sitting on the end of the couch. He was trying to understand her, to fix firmly in his mind what kind of person she was. She seemed like—What was her name? Vivian. Only Vivian had longer hair, and smoother. This girl’s hair was hard and short and heavy. Like a pelt. It was hard cut, like a little helmet. He felt himself smiling at her, and presently he saw her set expression fade, and she smiled back.

  “My name is Barbara Mahler,” she said.

  He considered the name. Jewish? German? “That’s the same as the composer. Do you spell it the same way?”

  “What?”

  “Gustav Mahler. Or hadn’t you been told?”

  “I didn’t know.” There was a pause.

  “Well, what do you know?” And he laughed out loud. The girl looked down at the floor. He could not tell if she were angry or embarrassed or what. With him, a person who had known many girls, who had, in fact, approached many under just such circumstances, the first few moments decided the issue. Either the girl liked him or she did not. If she did not he went away. He was too old to worry about it.

  To Verne, life was a short affair. No long drawn-out eternity stretched away ahead of him. What he got he expected to get within a span of time so definite that he could fairly well see the end of it. He did not imagine that the kind of life he appreciated was going to continue forever. Looking down at the silent girl he waited, prepared for the next move, a sign telling him whether to go on off again or to stay. At the far end of the room a girl with long blonde hair had just arrived and was gazing around her. Slender, with large eyes and full breasts, this girl stood waiting. He looked down at Barbara again.

  “You must think I’m awfully stupid,” she murmured.

  Verne laughed again. “You don’t mind if I sit down, do you? You weren’t planning to occupy any more of this couch than you are at present, were you?”

  She shook her head. He thought; what kind of a girl are you, young woman? You seem pretty tough. And he thought: but that’s not all. Not by any means.

  He sat down, balancing the glass on his knee. His legs sprawled out loosely. Barbara’s hand played slowly with a piece of thread that stuck up from the arm of the couch. He watched. Neither of them spoke. Verne knew how hard it was to tell what was going on in a woman’s mind, what might come in the next moment. He had learned to force himself quickly in and almost bluntly push and shove. He either lost out right away or he was accepted. He had given up trying to match the complicated workings of a woman’s mind.

  “Do you know these people here?” Barbara said.

  “A few. I don’t live here in Castle, of course. I come from New York. I’m just up for a little while to get away from things. I have to go back.”

  “From New York? What do you do?”

  “I’m an announcer. I even have a jazz program. Potluck Party. Haven’t you ever heard of it?”

  “I’m from Boston. Potluck Party? What kind of jazz is it?”

  “Musicians’ jazz. Progressive stuff. Not that doodle-de-dop-dop business, but real jazz experiments. Rayburn, Shearing. Brubeck.”

  “No New Orleans or Chicago?”

  “A little; we do get calls for it. Jazz is an evolving thing—don’t forget that. Guys can’t go on writing and playing something after it’s dead. New Orleans and Chicago jazz were both products of specific environments. Chicago came out of the depression and the honky-tonk; that’s gone. Jazz reflects the times, just like any music. A man can’t any more honestly play Chicago jazz today than could Darius Milhaud write like Mozart.”

  Barbara’s face began to struggle. “But don’t you think men like Ory or Bunk Johnson—”

  “They were good. In their time. And Bach was a good composer. But that doesn’t mean everyone should keep on trying to write like Bach. What I say is—”

  But then he stopped, grinning.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t talk about jazz. I can see that we won’t agree.”

  “But no,” Barbara said. “Go on. You have your own program? What time is it?”

  “Thursday night at nine o’clock. Usually I use records and transcriptions. Sometimes I have a live group. The last I had was a quintet. Earl Peterson’s Quintet. You know them?”

  “No.”

  “It’s progressive, but soft. Some people think it sounds like Debussy.”

  “I don’t know too much about the classics.”

  “I hate that word,” Verne said. “It smells of dust and museums. Anyhow, you wouldn’t call Debussy classic, would you? How about Henry Cowell? Or Charles Ives?”

  He could see that she did not know what he was talking about. He was beginning to get her typed in his mind. He felt better. To him, there were not individual women, each to be understood. There were kinds of women, types. Once he had figured out what type a particular woman was, the process of dealing with her was much easier.

  “Listen to what they’re playing now,” he said suddenly. The couples who had been dancing had stopped and were sitting around the phonograph, listening.

  Barbara listened. After a few minutes she turned to Verne. “All I can make out is a lot of banging sounds.”

  Some people, disturbed by her voice, turned to glare at her. She glared back.

  “Be careful,” Verne whispered. “They pray in front of that. It’s a kind of little idol.”

  “What is it?”

  “The Bartok Concerto for Two Pianos and Percussion. It takes time to get used to. Like blue cheese.”

  “I
enjoy some of Beethoven’s symphonies…”

  After the piece came to an end Penny and Felix came over. They greeted Verne.

  “Do you and Barbara know each other?” Penny said.

  “We just met. Over the sound of cymbals and drums.”

  “I don’t like that Bartok thing,” Felix said. “I see no purpose in it. I don’t care what they say.”

  “How come all you people know each other?” Barbara demanded. “Everyone knows everyone except me.”

  “It’s your own fault,” Penny said. “You always go off by yourself, and then you complain about being left out. We met Verne when we first came here. I thought you were along. You probably stayed behind to write home,”

  “Can I get anyone a drink?” Felix asked.

  “Not me,” Penny said. “If I drink any more I’ll pass out. Somebody ought to tell Tom to make them weaker. We still have two hours to go.”

  There was a stir among the people, A man was going from person to person collecting money.

  “What’s this for?” Felix said.

  “We’re running short of booze, fellow,” the man said. “Pitch in like a good boy.”

  Felix dropped in a clatter of change. Verne gave the man a bill. The man went off.

  “If I’d known it was going to cost us money I wouldn’t have come,” Felix said bitterly. “We have damn near not enough to get back as it is.”

  “Are you people leaving?” Verne asked.

  “We have to get back to Boston. This is almost our last day. We’re so broke we’ve got to hitchhike.”

  “That means we’ll probably have to break up and go separately,” Penny said. “I don’t like the idea. What I want to do is wire home and demand bus fare.”

  “I could drive one of you down,” Verne said thoughtfully. “I have to go back myself on Wednesday. But I only have the coupe, and three is all we could get into it. Myself, this fellow I’ve already promised, and someone else.”

  Penny nudged Barbara. “This would be a hell of a good deal for you, kid. Then Felix and I could take the bus with what we have. What do you say?”

  “Well, let’s not rush into things,” Barbara said loudly. “Let’s take it easy.”

  “Okay. It was just an idea. Don’t get mad.”

  “Anyhow, my offer holds good,” Verne said.

  To Verne, the two weeks at Castle, if nothing else, were at least a temporary escape from a bad situation. It would all begin again when he got back to New York; but for the moment he could forget about everything.

  The Woolly Wildcats had opened at the Walker Club early in January. At the time, busy with his program and trying to prepare a book on the history of jazz at the same time, he had no particular interest in them.

  “They’re really good,” Don Field said to him. Don came around to the station to lend them jazz records from his collection or to make cuts on their professional recording equipment. Don Field drooped. He always wore clean, tasteful clothes, carefully pressed and in the proper style, but underneath them his whole being drooped. It gave him a wilted, worn-out look, as if he were just out of bed. A person for whom all activity was exhausting.

  “They’re good,” Don said again. “Aren’t you even interested?” His hoarse voice raised a little. “What’s the matter? Aren’t you interested in jazz anymore? You’re too busy writing about it to listen?”

  “I’m interested. I just don’t have any time. It must be nice living on unemployment insurance, all the time.”

  “Not all the time.”

  “You are right now.”

  Don shrugged. “Anyhow, if you’re interested, you ought to go and have a listen. You might get them on your show. Give it a little life.”

  “What’s your connection with them?”

  “None.”

  “Oh?”

  “Well, my friend Buck McLean is first cornet But it’s purely a friendly interest. I have no other connection. I go every night to listen and enjoy myself. Also, the girlfriend likes it.”

  Verne glanced at Don, sallow-faced, drooping himself over the end of the table. “What’s she like? Do I know her?”

  “No,” Don said. He went out the door, closing it noisily after him. Verne heard him clomping down the hall.

  Eventually he found time to take in several new combos, including the Woolly Wildcats. The Walker Club had once been owned by a stripteaser of considerable fame, but recently it had dropped slowly down the social scale until now it was just another hangout for jazz cultists.

  As soon as he entered the Club he saw Don, and a few more of his kind, besides. The Woolly Wildcats were playing fast and loud, “Emperor Norton’s Hunch.” He saw McLean puffing away behind his cornet, his cheeks bulging out. A little cluster of admirers hung around the stand.

  Verne sat down at a table and played listlessly with some wax from the candle. When the waitress started toward him he waved her off. Presently he got up, and going over to the bar bought himself a scotch and water. He carried it back and sat down at the table again.

  When the Wildcats finished Don Field came over to Verne’s table. And with him was his new girlfriend. She was tall and thin, with long black hair. Sandals and a red shirt. Some sort of jacket buttoned around her throat. She was taller than he, Verne realized, when he stood up to say hello. He invited them to sit down for a few minutes.

  “What do you think of them?” Don rumbled.

  Verne shrugged. “It’s a band.”

  “What?” Don said hoarsely.

  The waitress came over. “What did you wish?”

  “Hello, Susan,” Don said. “I want a half order of red beans and rice, with a side of garlic bread.” He turned to the girl. “What do you want, Teddy?”

  “Coffee.”

  He looked at Verne. Verne tapped his drink.

  “That’s all,” Don said to the waitress. “And a cup of coffee for me, too. My father here is paying for this.”

  The waitress disappeared. Verne studied the girl critically.

  Her hair was dyed. He could see that; it was too dead, too lusterless. She was restless, bird-like. Her finger tips tapped continually against the table. Her thin hands were strong and determined. He glanced up at her face and found himself looking into two bright eyes. They sparkled and seemed to be enjoying some private amusement of their own. He looked away.

  “Come on,” Don said. “Let’s admit they are about the best one-beat band around.”

  “Wood blocks. Banjo. Strictly rick-i-tic.”

  Don’s great sullen face clouded. “All you crews want is this bop—” he began, but the girl put her hand on his arm suddenly, leaning toward him.

  “Come on, darling. Let’s not get excited about it.”

  Don subsided into silent gloom. The red beans and rice came. Don began to tear hunks of garlic bread loose and scoop up the beans with them. Like some peasant of the Middle Ages, Verne thought. He sipped his drink.

  Presently Teddy leaned over toward him. “To get back to the problem of jazz. Do I receive the impression that you don’t personally enjoy the Dixieland-style jazz?”

  Verne shrugged. “It had its place.”

  He was watching her closely. If she was a bird, she was a dangerous kind of bird. A bird of prey. He found he disliked talking with her. She was pushing, searching. He did not like women who did that.

  “Is this the first time you’ve been here?” he asked, changing the subject. “Miss—”

  “Teddy.”

  “Teddy?”

  “No, I’ve been here many times before. I like it here. And I especially enjoy the music.”

  He smiled. “Oh? That’s nice.”

  She smiled back. Don ate, immersed in the problems of consumption. Once in a while he looked up, chewing, his great face blank and expressionless.

  “I understand you have a jazz program,” Teddy said. “What’s the name of it?”

  “Potluck Party. Thursday evening at nine.”

  “What kind of music do yo
u play?”

  “Progressive jazz, mostly. Brubeck. Bostic.”

  “I don’t know much about them.”

  “You should. Some day people will sit around in dark places reviving them. Like you do Ory and Johnson.”

  “Do you write your own programs out in advance, or do you do it ad lib?”

  “It varies.” He uncovered his watch. “Well,” he said, getting up slowly, finishing the last of his drink, “I guess I’m going to have to be getting on. You staying? I can drive you someplace, if you want.”

  Don looked up from his food. “See you later, dad.”

  “I’m sorry you have to leave so soon,” Teddy said, the fixed smile still on her face. “I hope we’ll see you again some time.”

  “Thanks. Goodbye.”

  He left.

  The following Thursday he did his program. After it was over he chatted a while with the board man and then went to get his coat. As he walked through the waiting room outside the control booth he saw—from the corner of his eye—that someone had got up suddenly from one of the deep chairs and was coming quickly up behind him.

  He turned. It was the girl, Teddy. She smiled at him. She wore a short bright outfit, brilliant with color. Her hair was tied into two braids, a ribbon in each. “Hello,” she said merrily.

  Watching her, Verne got out his pipe and began to put tobacco in it He was trying to understand her, and he could not.

  Her eyes were bright, matching the hard little smile on her lips. He thought; home guidance counselors and lady receptionists smile like that.

  “Hello,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

  “I enjoyed watching your program. I haven’t seen anyone do a program in years.”

  She had watched through the heavy glass soundproof window between the waiting room and the control room.

  “Thanks.” He put on his coat, sucking on the unlit pipe. She never took her eyes off him.

  “Do you want a match?”

  Verne got out his lighter. He wondered how old she was. Twenty-two? Eighteen? Thirty? It was impossible to tell. Her skin was white and thin, startling against her hair. What a hideous outfit she had on! It was like glaring plumage. It was not tasteless; it was simply outlandish. Like parts of different outfits stitched together.