McTeague, Frank Norris [polar express read aloud .txt] 📗

going towards the flat. The rain had stopped, but the sidewalks were still glistening. The cable cars trundled by, loaded with theatregoers. The barbers were just closing their shops. The candy store on the corner was brilliantly lighted and was filling up, while the green and yellow lamps from the drug store directly opposite threw kaleidoscopic reflections deep down into the shining surface of the asphalt. A band of Salvationists began to play and pray in front of Frenna’s saloon. Trina hurried on down the gay street, with its evening’s brilliancy and small activities, her shawl over her head, one hand lifting her faded skirt from off the wet pavements. She turned into the alley, entered Zerkow’s old home by the ever-open door, and ran upstairs to the room. Nobody.

“Why, isn’t this funny,” she exclaimed, half aloud, standing on the threshold, her little milk-white forehead curdling to a frown, one sore finger on her lips. Then a great fear seized upon her. Inevitably she associated the house with a scene of violent death.

“No, no,” she said to the darkness, “Mac is all right. He can take care of himself.” But for all that she had a clear-cut vision of her husband’s body, bloated with seawater, his blond hair streaming like kelp, rolling inertly in shifting waters.

“He couldn’t have fallen off the rocks,” she declared firmly. “There⁠—there he is now.” She heaved a great sigh of relief as a heavy tread sounded in the hallway below. She ran to the banisters, looking over, and calling, “Oh, Mac! Is that you, Mac?” It was the German whose family occupied the lower floor. The powerhouse clock struck nine.

“My God, where is Mac?” cried Trina, stamping her foot.

She put the shawl over her head again, and went out and stood on the corner of the alley and Polk Street, watching and waiting, craning her neck to see down the street. Once, even, she went out upon the sidewalk in front of the flat and sat down for a moment upon the horse-block there. She could not help remembering the day when she had been driven up to that horse-block in a hack. Her mother and father and Owgooste and the twins were with her. It was her wedding day. Her wedding dress was in a huge tin trunk on the driver’s seat. She had never been happier before in all her life. She remembered how she got out of the hack and stood for a moment upon the horse-block, looking up at McTeague’s windows. She had caught a glimpse of him at his shaving, the lather still on his cheek, and they had waved their hands at each other. Instinctively Trina looked up at the flat behind her; looked up at the bay window where her husband’s Dental Parlors had been. It was all dark; the windows had the blind, sightless appearance imparted by vacant, untenanted rooms. A rusty iron rod projected mournfully from one of the window ledges.

“There’s where our sign hung once,” said Trina. She turned her head and looked down Polk Street towards where the Other Dentist had his rooms, and there, overhanging the street from his window, newly furbished and brightened, hung the huge tooth, her birthday present to her husband, flashing and glowing in the white glare of the electric lights like a beacon of defiance and triumph.

“Ah, no; ah, no,” whispered Trina, choking back a sob. “Life isn’t so gay. But I wouldn’t mind, no I wouldn’t mind anything, if only Mac was home all right.” She got up from the horse-block and stood again on the corner of the alley, watching and listening.

It grew later. The hours passed. Trina kept at her post. The noise of approaching footfalls grew less and less frequent. Little by little Polk Street dropped back into solitude. Eleven o’clock struck from the powerhouse clock; lights were extinguished; at one o’clock the cable stopped, leaving an abrupt and numbing silence in the air. All at once it seemed very still. The only noises were the occasional footfalls of a policeman and the persistent calling of ducks and geese in the closed market across the way. The street was asleep.

When it is night and dark, and one is awake and alone, one’s thoughts take the color of the surroundings; become gloomy, sombre, and very dismal. All at once an idea came to Trina, a dark, terrible idea; worse, even, than the idea of McTeague’s death.

“Oh, no,” she cried. “Oh, no. It isn’t true. But suppose⁠—suppose.”

She left her post and hurried back to the house.

“No, no,” she was saying under her breath, “it isn’t possible. Maybe he’s even come home already by another way. But suppose⁠—suppose⁠—suppose.”

She ran up the stairs, opened the door of the room, and paused, out of breath. The room was dark and empty. With cold, trembling fingers she lighted the lamp, and, turning about, looked at her trunk. The lock was burst.

“No, no, no,” cried Trina, “it’s not true; it’s not true.” She dropped on her knees before the trunk, and tossed back the lid, and plunged her hands down into the corner underneath her wedding dress, where she always kept the savings. The brass match-safe and the chamois-skin bag were there. They were empty.

Trina flung herself full length upon the floor, burying her face in her arms, rolling her head from side to side. Her voice rose to a wail.

“No, no, no, it’s not true; it’s not true; it’s not true. Oh, he couldn’t have done it. Oh, how could he have done it? All my money, all my little savings⁠—and deserted me. He’s gone, my money’s gone, my dear money⁠—my dear, dear gold pieces that I’ve worked so hard for. Oh, to have deserted me⁠—gone for good⁠—gone and never coming back⁠—gone with my gold pieces. Gone⁠—gone⁠—gone. I’ll never see them again, and I’ve worked so hard, so so hard for him⁠—for them. No, no, no, it’s not true. It is true. What will become of me now? Oh, if