Decorum

Avoid opposition and argument in conversation. Rarely controvert opinions; never contradict sentiments. The expression of a feeling should be received as a fact which is not the subject of confutation. Those who wrangle in company render themselves odious by disturbing the equanimity of their companion, and compelling him to defend and give a reason for his opinion, when perhaps he is neither capable nor inclined to do it.

—Decorum, page 231

“What is it?” Tracey called in answer to the knock.

The knock came again. “What is it?” he called again, this time irritably.

The shutters flattened the room of plush and paisley into a pattern of gray stripes. A pile of clothes lay fermenting on a chaise of black horsehair that was draped with a fringed throw. A half-empty bottle of whiskey and a glass sat on the stand by the bed, a pool of drink in a sticky film on the green marble surface. A second glass had tipped over on the floor, the few remaining drops dried into amber spots on the thick rug. The stale memory of expensive perfume and cigarette smoke clung to every object in the room.

“Does Mrs. Ryder want her tea, sir?” The voice was timid. The social rituals had to be observed, even in an oven.

Edmund Tracey stirred and extracted himself from his companion’s embrace, rose, and stumbled naked out of the alcove that held the ornate bed and into the adjoining sitting room. He fumbled through the rubble of clothing on the chaise to find something to cover himself. His long, collarless shirt would do. He ran his hand through his thick thatch of auburn hair as he made for the door and opened it without a word. The maid shrank back and looked confused, her arms loaded with the silver tray arrayed with afternoon tea.

“Does Mrs. Ryder want her tea, sir?” she repeated, then fixed her gaze upon the tray. The man eyed her for a moment, then turned his head toward the bed.

“Nell? Hey, Nell! Shall I have the tea brought in?” His tone was mocking. He made a graceful sweeping gesture with his arm.

The woman sat up. Her henna-red hair, disarrayed in the heat of lovemaking, sat in a ball on her shoulder and hung in clumps in front of her face like a ratty veil. Groggy, she drew up the sheet to cover her bare, sagging breasts and rubbed her pale face. As she came to, she took up the silk dressing gown from the end of the bed, pulled it on, and tied it tightly at the waist. The silk matted to her sweating form.

“Yes,” Nell said, “have her bring it in.” She rose and rearranged her gown, threw her head back, and squared her shoulders like an empress who had just donned her raiment. She moved to the bureau, picking pins from the knotted ball of hair on her shoulder.

Tracey stood aside and let the maid pass. She kept her eyes averted from the man and woman as she went to a round table and emptied the tray of its silver service, fine china, bread and butter, and jam. She turned, eyes cast down, to inquire whether anything else was wanted.

“That’ll be all for now, thank you, Daisy,” Nell said. The maid made a slight curtsey and escaped.

Tracey approached the bureau where Nell Ryder stood, put his hands on her waist, and nuzzled the hair she was trying to untangle. She smiled at his reflection in a curious, self-satisfied way.

“It’s just as well. Anton will be home soon,” she said.

“And how is dear Anton? As interestingly engaged this afternoon as I was?”

“Perhaps. I never ask.”

“Not even ask him, in your good and wifely way, whether he has had a good day?”

“To that question I would no doubt receive a pleasant ‘Yes.’ And you have an engagement this evening, if I’m not mistaken.”

He stood upright. She needn’t have reminded him. To be caught thus between two undesirable circumstances, using one to seek relief from the other, was sapping his strength. He had come to rue the day she had fixed her roving eye on him. The timing could not have been more deadly. Tracey had been down to his last good suit and Nell had been down to her last gigolo.

“I’m glad Harold persuaded you to come out with us,” remarked the female companion of a friend as Tracey joined them in a cab bound for a party at an unknown house. “Someone must take you in hand and cajole you out of this dreariness. You aren’t in mourning, even if she may be. I’m sure you’ll find amusement aplenty at Nell’s. Everybody does—and I mean everybody.”

The cut of the friend’s evening suit pegged it as three years old—an offense Edmund Tracey would not excuse in himself. The girl was more fashionable, but her style was too emphatic for good taste. She was young, though Tracey deduced that her skill with unguents and corsetry had been acquired with much practice. Their confidence in a favorable reception at the Ryders’ made it clear enough what sort of party this would be.

“Who is likely to be there?” Tracey had asked.

“Anyone,” said the friend with a careless wave of his gloved hand. “Anarchists to antiquarians. Jurists to jugglers. Politicians to prizefighters. Thieves to thespians.”

“Do they all dress?” asked Tracey, indicating their evening attire.

“Those who can, do,” said the friend, “though I suppose it isn’t strictly necessary. I’m sure our hosts will appreciate the effort.”

“And our hosts?”

“He’s an impresario,” said the friend. “Always on the lookout for new talent or a promising production. His wife is equally on the lookout for new talent, which makes things interesting.” The friend’s words had been prophetic.

“Harold, that’s terrible,” the girl had said with pleasure. They all had laughed.

Tracey had liked the game at first. Nell Ryder had been beautiful in a vulgar sort of way. Such physical allure as she might continue to possess would be enhanced by more paint and rouge, which would sink into the smoky creases around her eyes and mouth. In the final analysis, nothing would give him greater satisfaction than to one day tell Nell Ryder and her whole posh, disreputable set to go to blazes.

He held her for a moment, motionless, eyes closed, with his face buried in the hennaed hair. How he could bear to continue, he could only wonder, but continue he must until his future was secure. He looked over Nell’s head into the mirror and pressed his lips into her hair. Pulling her closer, he smiled and ran his hands under her breasts. She pushed his hands away and smiled again, then brushed her hair as he nuzzled her.

“I do indeed, my darling Nell,” said Tracey, betraying a refined Southern drawl. He crossed to the nightstand and poured whiskey into the dirty glass and sat on the edge of the bed, sarcasm welling up and spreading unpleasantly across his face.

“How do you think you’ll fare this time?” she asked.

“Oh, probably no better than at any other time.”

“No? You certainly are a persistent gentleman.”

“I am nothing if not persistent.”

“My poor, poor pet,” said Nell. She took the glass from his hand and drank from it, then poured him another and handed him the glass. He put his hand to her face and turned it to kiss her on the mouth. “I wish I could help you,” she continued. “I wish I had some magic potion to make rich but recalcitrant ladies fall in love with you.” She took the whiskey bottle and drank from it.

“I wish you had, too.”

“The Magpie hasn’t made any headway on your behalf?”

“No. They don’t seem to be getting along again, which makes things very awkward. I keep being invited to attend every possible function, but nothing ever comes of it. The Magpie billows and coos but the Chickadee only gets annoyed. I’m afraid it is only a matter of time before the Magpie tires and gives me up to my luckless, penniless fate.”

“So you haven’t bedded her down to keep her interested in you?”

“You don’t understand, my dear Nell. If I slept with the Magpie, she would consider it a betrayal of her Chickadee, not a token of my loyalty to herself.”

“How awkward. She certainly doesn’t allow you to play to your strengths, does she?”

“I think I frighten her.”

“You haven’t done anything stupid, have you?” Nell asked in a mocking tone.

“I think if I were to make serious advances she wouldn’t know what to do. She would have neither the nerve to accept nor the courage to be indecorous enough to tell me to go to hell. Even thirty years of marriage to that bore Jerome hasn’t driven her to seek more interesting company. She’s a dried, shriveled-up shell with no seed and no imagination. I seem to fascinate her, which is enough to hold her and plenty for me to cope with.”

“But would you bed her down if it were—necessary?”

“Since I do not think it will become necessary, my dear Nell, I would sooner refrain from speculating on any such action. Flattery and attention are crumbs enough to satisfy her meager appetite—thank the Lord.” He poured another glass.

“My poor pet.” Nell went to the table and drew two cigarettes out of a silver box, placed them both in her lips, lit them, and brought one to Tracey. “She still believes you’re dripping with money?”

“To which ‘she’ do you refer? The Magpie or the Chickadee?” he asked, drawing on the cigarette and exhaling a plume of smoke. She liked to see him squirm and it took all his power to deprive her of the satisfaction. Their mental arm wrestling was a game for which he had little strength. He drew on the cigarette again. Nell’s were expensive cigarettes. His one consolation was that she only paid for the best.

“Either, I suppose. I was referring to the Magpie.” Nell considered him. “She does still think you are dripping with money, doesn’t she?”

“Positively dripping.” He couldn’t look at her. He studied the bottom of the glass and then held it up and tapped the bottle she held with the glass’s rim. She poured him another.

“Meaning that she’ll be offering you none?”

“Positively none.”

“Then I take it you need money.”

“Don’t I always need money?”

“Always, my poor, dear Edmund.” Nell crossed back to the bureau and took a purse from the top drawer. He did not watch her as she pulled out the wallet and thumbed through its contents. She replaced the wallet in the purse and the purse in the drawer. He drew on the cigarette and kept his eyes fixed on nothing.

“Will a hundred do?”

“Two hundred would be better.”

“I’m sure it would.”

The oft-repeated scene was wearing him down. Though Edmund Tracey had long believed—indeed from childhood—that someone else should have the trouble of paying for his keep, to have to ask for money and have it meted out chafed at his image of himself as an independent man. He should not be kept, but be served.

“You know if I give you more you’ll only spend more.” She held out the money. He stirred and looked at her. She made no move toward him, but fixed him in her gaze. She expected him to come to her. The picture irritated him—the dyed hair, the traces of rouge and powder, the erect carriage draped in silk that clung to her still-shapely form, the knowing look, the money in her hand, the purse in the bureau that held more.

“Well, do you want it or not?” she said, smiling, shrugging her shoulders a little, still holding out the money.

“The question is, Do you want it or not?” he said.

“Want what?” she replied in mock innocence.

“To continue these lovely afternoons in each other’s company.”

“Let me put it this way: I’ve become as dependent on you as you have on me.”

He lingered a moment, then rose grudgingly and went to her, taking the money from her hand. Before she could let her hand drop he caught it and pressed it to his lips.

“You are a picture, Mrs. Ryder.”

“You are a bastard, Mr. Tracey.”