Thomas Wolfe, page 301
For in the well-ordered world in which these people lived, something had gone suddenly wrong. Things had got out of control. They were the lords and masters of the earth, vested with authority and accustomed to command, but now the control had been taken from them. So they felt strangely helpless, no longer able to command the situation, no longer able even to find out what was happening.
But, in ways remote from their blind and troubled kenning, events had been moving to their inexorable conclusion.
In one of the smoky corridors of that enormous hive, two men in boots and helmets had met in earnest communion.
“Did you find it?”
“Yes.”
“Where is it?”
“It’s in the basement, chief. It’s not on the roof at all—a draft is taking it up a vent. But it’s down there.” He pointed with his thumb.
“Well, then, go get it. You know what to do.”
“It looks bad, chief. It’s going to be hard to get.”
“What’s the trouble?”
“If we flood the basement, we’ll also flood two levels of railroad tracks. You know what that means.”
For a moment their eyes held each other steadily. Then the older man jerked his head and started for the stairs.
“Come on,” he said. “We’re going down.”
Down in the bowels of the earth there was a room where lights were burning and it was always night.
There, now, a telephone rang, and a man with a green eyeshade seated at a desk answered it.
“Hello. . . . Oh, hello, Mike.”
He listened carefully for a moment, suddenly jerked forward taut with interest, and pulled the cigarette out of his mouth.
“The hell you say! . . . Where? Over track thirty-two? . . . They’re going to flood it! . . . Hell!”
Deep in the honeycombs of the rock the lights burned green and red and yellow, silent in the eternal dark, lovely, poignant as remembered grief. Suddenly, all up and down the faintly gleaming rails, the green and yellow eyes winked out and flashed to warning red.
A few blocks away, just where the network of that amazing underworld of railroad yards begins its mighty flare of burnished steel, the Limited halted swiftly, but so smoothly that the passengers, already standing to debark, felt only a slight jar and were unaware that anything unusual had happened.
Ahead, however, in the cab of the electric locomotive which had pulled the great train the last miles of its span along the Hudson River, the engineer peered out and read the signs. He saw the shifting patterns of hard light against the dark, and swore:
“Now what the hell?”
And as the great train slid to a stop, the current in the third rail was shut off and the low whine that always came from the powerful motors of the locomotive was suddenly silenced. Turning now across his instruments to another man, the engineer spoke quietly:
“I wonder what the hell has happened,” he said.
For a long time the Limited stood a silent and powerless thing of steel, while a short distance away the water flooded down and flowed between the tracks there like a river. And five hundred men and women who had been caught up from their lives and swiftly borne from cities, towns, and little hamlets all across the continent were imprisoned in the rock, weary, impatient, frustrated—only five minutes away from the great station that was the end and goal of their combined desire. And in the station itself other hundreds waited for them—and went on waiting—restless, wondering, anxious, knowing nothing about the why of it.
Meanwhile, on the seventh landing of the service stairs in the evacuated building, firemen had been working feverishly with axes. The place was dense with smoke. The sweating men wore masks, and the only light they had was that provided by their torchlights.
They had battered open the doorway of the elevator shaft, and one of them had lowered himself down onto the roof of the imprisoned car half a floor below and was now cutting into the roof with his sharp axe.
“Have you got it, Ed?”
“Yeah—just about. . . . I’m almost through. . . . This next one does it, I think.”
The axe smashed down again. There was a splintering crash. And then:
“O.K. . . . Wait a minute. . . . Hand me down that flashlight, Tom.”
“See anything?”
In a moment, quietly:
“Yeah. . . . I’m going in. . . . Jim, you better come down, too. I’ll need you.”
There was a brief silence, then the man’s quiet voice again:
“O.K. . . . I’ve got it. . . . Here, Jim, reach down and get underneath the arms. . . . Got it? . . . O.K. . . . Tom, you better reach down and help Jim. . . . Good.”
Together they lifted it from its imprisoned trap, looked at it for a moment in the flare of their flashlights, and laid it down, not ungently, on the floor—something old and tired and dead and very pitiful.
Mrs. Jack went to the window of the drug store and peered out at the great building across the street.
“I wonder if anything’s happening over there,” she said to her friends with a puzzled look on her face. “Do you suppose it’s over? Have they got it out?”
The dark immensity of those towering walls told nothing, but there were signs that the fire was almost out. There were fewer lines of hose in the street, and one could see firemen pulling them in and putting them back in the trucks. Other firemen were coming from the building, bringing their tools and stowing them away. All the great engines were still throbbing powerfully, but the lines that had connected them with the hydrants were uncoupled, and the water they were pumping now came from somewhere else and was rushing in torrents down all the gutters. The police still held the crowd back and would not yet permit the tenants to return to their apartments.
The newspapermen, who had early arrived upon the scene, were now beginning to come into the drug store to telephone their stories to the papers. They were a motley crew, a little shabby and threadbare, with battered hats in which their press cards had been stuck, and some of them had the red noses which told of long hours spent in speakeasies
One would have known that they were newspapermen even without their press cards. The signs were unmistakable. There was something jaded in the eye, something a little worn and tarnished about the whole man, something that got into his face, his tone, the way he walked, the way he smoked a cigarette, even into the hang of his trousers, and especially into his battered hat, which revealed instantly that these were gentlemen of the press.
It was something wearily receptive, wearily cynical, something that said wearily: “I know, I know. But what’s the story? What’s the racket?”
And yet it was something that one liked, too, something corrupted but still good, something that had once blazed with hope and aspiration, something that said: “Sure. I used to think I had it in me, too, and I’d have given my life to write something good. Now I’m just a whore. I’d sell my best friend out to get a story. I’d betray your trust, your faith, your friendliness, twist everything you say around until any sincerity, sense, or honesty that might be in your words was made to sound like the maunderings of a buffoon or a clown—if I thought it would make a better story. I don’t give a damn for truth, for accuracy, for facts, for telling anything about you people here, your lives, your speech, the way you look, the way you really are, the special quality, tone, and weather of this moment—of this fire—except insofar as they will help to make a story. What I want to get is the special ‘angle’ on it. There has been grief and love and fear and ecstasy and pain and death tonight: a whole universe of living has been here enacted. But all of it doesn’t matter a damn to me if I can only pick up something that will make the customers sit up tomorrow and rub their eyes—if I can tell ’em that in the excitement Miss Lena Ginster’s pet boa constrictor escaped from its cage and that the police and fire departments are still looking for it while Members of Fashionable Apartment House Dwell in Terror. . . . So there I am, folks, with yellow fingers, weary eyeballs, a ginny breath, and what is left of last night’s hangover, and I wish to God I could get to that telephone to send this story in, so the boss would tell me to go home, and I could step around to Eddy’s place for a couple more highballs before I call it another day. But don’t be too hard on me. Sure, I’d sell you out, of course. No man’s name or any woman’s reputation is safe with me—if I can make a story out of it—but at bottom I’m not such a bad guy. I have violated the standards of decency again and again, but in my heart I’ve always wanted to be decent. I don’t tell the truth, but there’s a kind of bitter honesty in me for all that. I’m able to look myself in the face at times, and tell the truth about myself and see just what I am. And I hate sham and hypocrisy and pretense and fraud and crookedness, and if I could only be sure that tomorrow was going to be the last day of the world—oh, Christ!—what a paper we’d get out in the morning! And, too, I have a sense of humor, I love gayety, food, drink, good talk, good companionship, the whole thrilling pageantry of life. So don’t be too severe on me. I’m really not as bad as some of the things I have to do.”
Such, indefinably yet plainly, were the markings of these men. It was as if the world which had so soiled them with its grimy touch had also left upon them some of its warm earthiness—the redeeming virtues of its rich experience, its wit and understanding, the homely fellowship of its pungent speech.
Two or three of them now went around among the people in the drug store and began to interview them. The questions that they asked seemed ludicrously inappropriate. They approached some of the younger and prettier girls, found out if they lived in the building, and immediately asked, with naïve eagerness, whether they were in the Social Register. Whenever any of the girls admitted that she was, the reporters would write down her name and the details of her parentage.
Meanwhile, one of the representatives of the press, a rather seedy-looking gentleman with a bulbous red nose and infrequent teeth, had called his City Desk on the telephone and, sprawled in the booth with his hat pushed back on his head and his legs sticking out through the open door, was reporting his findings. George Webber was standing with a group of people at the back of the store, near the booth. He had noticed the reporter when he first came in, and had been fascinated by something in his seedy, hard-boiled look; and now, although George appeared to be listening to the casual chatter around him, he was really hanging with concentrated attention on every word the man was saying:
“. . . Sure, that’s what I’m tellin’ yuh. Just take it down. . . . The police arrived,” he went on importantly, as if fascinated by his own journalese—“the police arrived and threw a cordon round the building.” There was a moment’s pause, then the red-nosed man rasped out irritably: “No, no, no! Not a squadron! A cordon! . . . What’s ’at? . . . Cordon, I say! C-o-r-d-o-n—cordon! . . . For Pete’s sake!” he went on in an aggrieved tone. “How long have you been workin’ on a newspaper, anyway? Didn’t yuh ever hear of a cordon before? . . . Now get this. Listen—” he went on in a careful voice, glancing at some scrawled notes on a piece of paper in his hand. “Among the residents are included many Social Registerites and others prominent among the younger set. . . . What? How’s that?” he said abruptly, rather puzzled. “Oh!”
He looked around quickly to see if he was being overheard, then lowered his voice and spoke again:
“Oh, sure! Two! . . . Nah, there was only two—that other story was all wrong. They found the old dame. . . . But that’s what I’m tellin’ yuh! She was all alone when the fire started—see! Her family was out, and when they got back they thought she was trapped up there. But they found her. She was down in the crowd. That old dame was one of the first ones out. . . . Yeh—only two. Both of ’em was elevator men.” He lowered his voice a little more, then, looking at his notes, he read carefully: “John Enborg . . . age sixty-four . . . married . . . three children . . . lives in Jamaica, Queens. . . . You got that?” he said, then proceeded: “And Herbert Anderson . . . age twenty-five . . . unmarried . . . lives with his mother . . . 841 Southern Boulevard, the Bronx. . . . Have yuh got it? . . . Sure. Oh, sure!”
Once more he looked around, then lowered his voice before he spoke again:
“No, they couldn’t get ’em out. They was both on the elevators, goin’ up to get the tenants—see!—when some excited fool fumbled for the light switches and grabbed the wrong one and shut the current off on ’em. . . . Sure. That’s the idea. They got caught between the floors. . . . They just got Enborg out,” his voice sank lower. “They had to use axes. . . . Sure. Sure.” He nodded into the mouthpiece. “That’s it—smoke. Too late when they got to him. . . . No, that’s all. Just those two. . . . No, they don’t know about it yet. Nobody knows. The management wants to keep it quiet if they can. . . . What’s that? Hey!—speak louder, can’t yuh? You’re mumblin’ at me!”
He had shouted sharply, irritably, into the instrument, and now listened attentively for a moment.
“Yeh, it’s almost over. But it’s been tough. They had trouble gettin’ at it. It started in the basement, then it went up a flue and out at the top. . . . Sure, I know,” he nodded. “That’s what made it so tough. Two levels of tracks are right below. They were afraid to flood the basement at first—afraid to risk it. They tried to get at it with chemicals, but couldn’t. . . . Yeh, so they turned off the juice down there and put the water on it. They probably got trains backed up all the way to Albany by now. . . . Sure, they’re pumpin’ it out. It’s about over, I guess, but it’s been tough. . . . O.K., Mac. Want me to stick around? . . . O.K.,” he said, and hung up.
[¬]
CHAPTER 21
LOVE IS NOT ENOUGH
The fire was over.
Mrs. Jack and those who were with her went out on the street when they heard the first engine leaving. And there on the sidewalk were Mr. Jack, Edith, and Alma. They had met some old friends at the hotel and had left Amy and her companions with them.
Mr. Jack looked in good spirits, and his manner showed, mildly and pleasantly, that he had partaken of convivial refreshment. Over his arm he was carrying a woman’s coat, which he now slipped around his wife’s shoulders, saying:
“Mrs. Feldman sent you this, Esther. She said you could send it back tomorrow.”
All this time she had had on nothing but her evening dress. She had remembered to tell the servants to wear their coats, but both she and Miss Mandell had forgotten theirs.
“How sweet of her!” cried Mrs. Jack, her face beginning to glow as she thought how kind everyone was in a time of stress. “Aren’t people good?”
Other refugees, too, were beginning to straggle back now and were watching from the corner, where the police still made them wait. Most of the fire engines had already gone, and the rest were throbbing quietly with a suggestion of departure. One by one the great trucks thundered away. And presently the policemen got the signal to let the tenants return to their rooms.
Stephen Hook said good night and walked off, and the others started across the street toward the building. From all directions people were now streaming through the arched entrances into the court, collecting maids, cooks, and chauffeurs as they came. An air of order and authority had been reestablished among them, and one could hear masters and mistresses issuing commands to their servants. The cloister-like arcades were filled with men and women shuffling quietly into their entryways.
The spirit of the crowd was altogether different now from what it had been a few hours earlier. All these people had recaptured their customary assurance and poise. The informality and friendliness that they had shown to one another during the excitement had vanished. It was almost as if they were now a little ashamed of the emotions which had betrayed them into injudicious cordialities and unwonted neighborliness. Each little family group had withdrawn frigidly into its own separate entity and was filing back into its own snug cell.
In the Jacks’ entry a smell of smoke, slightly stale and acrid, still clung to the walls, but the power had been restored and the elevator was running again. Mrs. Jack noticed with casual surprise that the doorman, Henry, took them up, and she asked if Herbert had gone home. He paused just perceptibly, and then answered in a flat tone:
“Yes, Mrs. Jack.”
“You all must be simply worn out!” she said warmly, with her instant sympathy. “Hasn’t it been a thrilling evening?” she went on eagerly. “In all your life did you ever know of such excitement, such confusion, as we had tonight?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the man said, in a voice so curiously unyielding that she felt stopped and baffled by it, as she had many times before.
And she thought:
“What a strange man he is! And what a difference between people! Herbert is so warm, so jolly, so human. You can talk to him. But this one—he’s so stiff and formal you can never get inside of him. And if you try to speak to him, he snubs you—puts you in your place as if he doesn’t want to have anything to do with you!”
She felt wounded, rebuffed, almost angry. She was herself a friendly person, and she liked people around her to be friendly, too—even the servants. But already her mind was worrying loosely at the curious enigma of the doorman’s personality:
“I wonder what’s wrong with him,” she thought. “He seems always so unhappy, so disgruntled, nursing some secret grievance all the time. I wonder what has done it to him. Oh, well, poor thing, I suppose the life he leads is enough to turn anyone sour—opening doors and calling cabs and helping people in and out of cars and answering questions all night long. But then, Herbert has it even worse—shut up in this stuffy elevator and riding up and down all the time where he can’t see anything and where nothing ever happens—and yet he’s always so sweet and so obliging about everything!”
