The Red Book Magazine/Volume 13/Number 5/The Bird in the Cage

NE afternoon O'Grady took me down to the beach and there we watched the patient waves as they lapped this alloted segment of the Spanish coast.

“What does it remind you of?” O'Grady asked.

I glanced back at the sleepy town gleaming white here and there amid the tropic shrubbery, and then again at the waves where they broke in continuous “sh-sh-sh” on the shore.

“Of a hammock,” I said, “an endless novel, and an eternity of afternoons.”

“I get the same, with a little lemon in it,” O'Grady answered. “Every time this drop is lowered before my eyes, Aloysius McMan walks on the stage and lies down under a property palm. I see his carpet-slippered feet waving in gesticulation toward the sky. I hear his stage-talk, which was of freedom and dreams, and the joyous cocktail they make of life when mixed in the proper proportions.”

“A queer place for carpet-slippers,” I ventured, with a glance at the stretch of sand.

“A queer place for McMan,” said O'Grady, “until you looked in his eyes. At a distance he was little, commonplace, fat. Just a pink-cheeked business-man all ready to declare a dividend. Until you looked in his eyes. Then you saw romance, and a longing for ports where the big ships never touch.”

I knew then that O'Grady had read the message of a kindred soul in the eyes of Aloysius McMan. My friend was himself a follower of strange gods along the shores of picture-book lands—a lover of the world's byways, a shunner of its highways. We dropped down under a convenient palm and looked out towards the waves where they whispered their unnecessary admonition to the sand.

“Twice in twenty-four hours I saw him, and never again,” continued O'Grady, “yet the image of Aloysius McMan is engraved on my heart. Also of the carpet-slippers. They had blue forget-me-nots on them—the work of loving hands.”

“Picture me,” he went on, “a raw-boned amateur cosmopolite six months out of Kansas City, with no baggage but a few collars, a couple of handkerchiefs, and a secret sorrow. Throughout those six homesick months the last named had been steadily growing less secret and more sorrowful, until at the time of which I speak it was my habit to unload it at sight on every bartender I met, regardless of race, religion, or previous condition of servitude.

“It was at the Hotel of the Seven Sequestered Saints in Limona, capital of a red fire republic a few revolutions down this same coast. I was seated in the bar, mentally finding fault with a country so secretive of its lotus beds, when McMan stepped up and touched me on the shoulder. I had never seen him before. On his feet were the carpet-slippers I have mentioned, and my attention was divided between them and the friendliness in his face. He introduced himself, and suggested a walk.

“We strolled along the coast that was an understudy to this one. Same water. Same sand. Same air of nothing doing until Gabriel comes on for his solo.

“McMan lay down under a palm, and I sat beside him. He gazed up at the green fronds, as quiet as if they were pasted on the sky.

“'This,” said McMan, 'carries me back to the hotel lobbies of my youth. Back to the land of arc-lights and table d'hôtes.' He looked at me searchingly as a fat man can. 'What brought you away from up there?' he asked.

“I mentioned the secret sorrow.

“'Give it a name,' said McMan.

“'Irene,' I came back. 'She juggles pie at a railway lunch-counter in Kansas City, and she's got this Venus de Milo screaming for help. Her cheeks are the tint of peaches and cream but her heart is as hard as a lunch-counter doughnut.'

“'She cast you off?' asked McMan, dropping into romantic idiom.

“'She threw me down,' I answered.

“'And you ran away to become a wanderer in strange lands?' says he. 'Young man, I congratulate you. You are one in a thousand, Nine hundred and ninety nine discarded Romeos are content with the threat, where one goes down to the station and buys a ticket.'

“I was glad he saw I was no quitter, and I tried to look pleased accordingly. But I couldn't. The picture of Irene was on my horizon, and sadness weighed me down. I sighed.

“McMan laughed. He clouted me on the back.

“'Cheer up,' he cried. 'The world is wide, and you are free to wander where you choose. Her image will brighten the lonely years. Cheer up.'

“'I think,' said I, 'of those cheeks, like peaches and cream.'

“'Think also,' says Aloysius McMan, 'of that heart, like a lunch-counter doughnut.'

“I tried the experiment, and a second sigh resulted. McMan threw another laugh up at the palm.

“'Look at me,' he cried. 'Look at me. Do you behold me engaged in any Heart-Bowed-Down song and dance?'

“His face overflowed joy. A smile like a sunrise glowed on it. Yes, it appeared that bliss fairly spilled from the soul of Aloysius McMan. I said as much.

“'And yet,' he replied, 'ten years ago a woman spoke the words that were scheduled to blight my life.'

“'You, too—' I began.

“'I, too, had an Irene,' he went on. 'She was a fairy recently from fairyland. A dream from Oxfords to Gainsborough But she offered to play the sisterly rôle, ind I woke up.

“'I was like you—one in a thousand,' he told me. 'I was a wanderer by nature. With time-tables, hotel folders, and steamship literature I loaded myself, and n my hall-bedroom I studied the tale that they told. They beckoned me to far off lands—lands pictured in rainbow colors that came off on my eager hands. They called me to red, white and blue shores where the sun never set, and you simply pressed a button for anything from a Martini to vaudeville. I picked out a country I could and pronounce, bought a ticket.

“'For ten years I have wandered along this coast with no company save her image. Her image, as last I saw her, a sprite of joy in the spotlight. Yes, she was on the stage. A dancer, and one who never touched earth.

“'I can see her yet,' he went on; 'men wrote poems about her, and called her the spirit of eternal youth. Such eyes! Such lips! Such a figure! Light as a feather she danced there on the stage, my heart keeping time to her dancing.

“'But I was one of many who loved her. It could never be. I said good-by to her one night in the wings, and she, glorious creature, far above me as she was—shed a sweet tear over my sorrow.

“'So I came away. I came here to this country I couldn't pronounce—this rainbow shore of rest. I wandered a free man, dreaming of her.'

“His face glowed.

“'If she sent for me,' he said, 'I would go to her—on the wings of love.'

“He waved his feet in the air, and one of the slippers fell off. I had to put it back. He couldn't reach.

“'I would go to her,' he repeated. 'But she doesn't send. She wont [sic] send. And I am very happy.'

“He looked it. I regarded him with disapproval.

“'McMan,' said I, 'you're brute.'

“He sat up under the palm, giving an imitation of dignity, and shook a chubby finger in my face.

“'Wait,' he said. 'You are young yet. When the first pangs are forgot you will find here peace and contentment, as I have found them. Who will question my joy? Does anyone tell me what to do for a cold? No. Does anyone lecture me about the effect of alcohol on the stomach? No. Does anyone inquire as to where I am going, and when I am coming back? No. I am free to roam as I will, and for company I have her image—her image, as I saw her last, dainty, an elfin sprite, dancing like a butterfly from flower to flower. Do butterflies do that? No matter. I am the happiest man in the world.'

“He turned that face of his toward the skies. It radiated bliss.

“'You are too young,' he said; 'when you are my age—when behind you are ten years of wandering with no one to make you wear your overshoes—then you will understand.'

“He kicked his heels to the sky again, in sheer and unseemly joy. I had two slippers to put back.

“'I have told you the name of Kansas City's fairest,' said I, by way of making conversation. 'Would you mind letting me in on the billboard cognomen of the lady with the butterfly act? I may have seen her—among the flowers.'

“'Not you,' said McMan. 'Long ago she married—another—and left the stage. The world that was once at her feet has forgot—only I remember Georgie LaReine.'

“He went on smiling toward heaven, while I sat blanched and sick in the face of the greatest tragedy of modern times.

“You want a diagram? Here it is:

“That very morning at the hotel, I had seen a mountain of a woman, massive, terrible, who trembled like a jelly when she sat and wheezed like a steam-boat when she walked. Of all her makeup, the jaw alone was solid—solid, hard, and mean. I had just turned away, saddened that the same world could hold both this man and Irene.

“And as I turned, Torcaba, the hotel keeper, had come up, rubbing his hands in the manner of a collector who has acquired a new specimen.

“'The señor regards the lady, oh so large?' he had said. 'Verily she is of great weight. It is a wonder of wonders that I shall impart. The years are ten since, in New Orleans, I saw this very woman dance. She was then, señor, the most beautiful creature to be imagined. Like a firefly of the night did she dance there on the stage.

“'I had inquired her name, fired with the curiosity of the race where celebrities, has-been or otherwise, are concerned.

“'Her name, señor'—as I sat beneath the palm the words of Torcaba burned in my brain—'was Georgie LaReine. She grew up in Orleans. Her mother was of my race. Once the world was at her twinkling feet, ''señor. Carrambos!'' What do the years hold sacred?'

“Well, there you have the tragedy that dawned upon me, as I sat under that palm in the company of Aloysius McMan. Figure it out yourself. For ten years he had wandered in strange lands, happy in his memory of the little elfin dancer who had shed a tear at parting. He pictured her as she had looked that night, clad in pink tights and spangles, a figure to inspire a painter or stampede a box-office. And all through the years he had dreamed of this sprite she had been growing up—growing up—and here she was in Limona, ready to blast the dreams of Aloysius McMan by simply walking into his picture. Here she was—a very estimable lady, no doubt, but no sight for any man who still saw her as a butterfly among the flowers.

“I resolved that at any cost McMan and this woman must not meet. The ideal my newly found friend cherished so dearly must not be shattered. That cherubic, joyous countenance must not be clouded by a knowledge of the tragedy the years had wrought.

“In the face of this desperate situation Irene of Kansas City was forgot, and I turned, heart and soul, to the salvation of Aloysius McMan.

“'Aint you about due to fold your tent and do the Arab specialty out of Limona?' I inquired.

“'Not yet,' he replied. 'No, I aint ready to pull out yet. But if I was, I'd waste no time. That's the beauty of this life, my boy. You can move the memory of a woman in a flash, whereas it takes a month to get the real article started, and then like as not she's forgot everything of importance. But we who are free—gloriously free—we can go when the spirit moves.'

“He did an imaginary cake-walk in the air. I put the slippers back thoughtfully.

"'Tis a dull town,' said I, 'and life drags but slowly down its grass-grown streets. I want more lights, more band concerts, more fireworks in the evening. Out there in the harbor is the fruit steamer, Palma—she sails from here at dawn. Why shouldn't you and I sail with her?'

"'Not I,' said McMan. 'I like this shore. I like this town. So quiet, so peaceful, so fond of dreaming in the sun. I shall stay here until I tire of it all—and then, up and away. Ah, it is indeed the great life.'

“The glad light on the face of Aloysius McMan I shall never forget. When I looked at it, the thought of the blow that might at any moment fall upon him sickened me, and I quickly turned my gaze away.

“Then I saw a sight that froze the blood in my veins. There, waddling towards us over the sand, a small portion of the sea visible on each side of her, came the butterfly of days gone by—Georgie LaReine. She carried a black umbrella, like a missionary or a suffragette, and she waved that same threateningly at Aloysius McMan and me.

“With trembling hands I affixed the slippers and dragged McMan to his feet. I pointed over the sand.

“'What this woman wants,' said I, 'heaven only knows. But I feel that she would convert us to some cause. We are on this shore to avoid the sex, Aloysius McMan—let us escape before it is too late.'

“McMan looked, and an expression of deep pain was in his eyes. To one who had dreamed for ten years of a dancer like an elfin sprite, the very sight of such a woman as this must naturally have been distressing.

“'By all means let us avoid her,' he agreed, and we plunged into the scenery.

“But Fate laid snares for the slippered feet of Aloysius McMan. We had gone a brief ten paces when he collided with a tropic understudy for a cockleburr, and his scream shivered the palms and rent the sky apart. And just as he seated himself in the underbrush, distinct and clear across the sand that woman called:

“'Aloysius!'

“In mortal agony for my friend, I pleaded that he rise and fly. He would do neither. He only sat there, sullen, and little, and funny.

“'She's recognized me,' he said.

“All the joy was gone from his face. Lines I had not suspected marked it. It occurred to me that an inkling of what would happen had crossed his mind.

“I leaned and touched his shoulder, pityingly.

“'Get up,' I said, brokenly. 'Get up and go to her. It is Georgie LaReine.'

“McMan struggled to his feet, and in his eyes lay a bitterness heartrending.

“'So it is!' he murmured. 'It is—but oh, how changed"

“And he shuffled over the sand to his awakening.

“I walked slowly back to the town, and with me walked the tragedy I had just witnessed. My heart bled for Aloysius McMan, he of the smile like a sunrise—McMan, whose dream of the years was now a shattered wreck, whose life was now entering into its long evening wherein no butterfly of memory was to dance.

“The clerk at the hotel handed me a letter which, through some caprice of the postal authorities, had not been included in my regular packet of mail. It was from Kansas City, and in my brother's writing.

“'Into weak coffee,' he said, 'her tears for you fall. They tell about that she is to marry Bill Summers, but the other night she asked for news of you, and into the coffee I saw her tears splash. She wants you to come for her, on a milk white steed, or a milk train, or something. I guess you had better beat it back to old K. C.'

“Earlier in the day that letter would have landed me in the clouds singing airs from light opera. It rather surprised me, therefore, when I found myself sitting calmly while I read my brother's words a second time. I then rose and sauntered in search of Torcaba.

“'Is the captain of the Palma about?' I asked the hotel keeper.

“Torcaba went into the bar-room and examined his stock. On the second shelf, third from the end, where a big black bottle should have reposed, there was a gap in the ranks.

“'He is about,' said Torcaba.

“I found the captain in a back room playing pinochle with the German consul. The ultimate destination of the Palma, he told me, was New Orleans, and I might sail with him at dawn.

“All that night, walking the shore, and later in my room I fought resolutely to keep my mind from Aloysius McMan, little, pink, blithe, prattling of ten years' happiness in the shadow of his tragedy. With an effort I thought instead of Kansas City station, with the trains coming and going, the traveling men in their loud waistcoats struggling with catch-as-catch-can meals—of Irene, stately, blond, beautiful, smiling haughtily upon the throng that pleaded before her counter. Likewise I dreamed of peaches and cream, and of one lunch-counter doughnut I had encountered, which was soft.

“At dawn, carrying my scanty luggage, I boarded the Palma. The sleepy crew were running vaguely about the deck, and the steamer throbbed as if eager to be off.

“Out of the way of the crew, in the shadow of a smoke-stack, I came upon Aloysius McMan, walking stealthily as if he feared to wake the sleeping tropics. Shoes had replaced the slippers on his feet. When he saw me he started back.

“'You here?' he cried.

“He didn't act a bit pleased.

“I took him by the arm and gazed into his face. It was old, flabby, shrouded in terrible gloom. I had to turn away.

“'Tell me,' I said hoarsely, 'what were her first words to you, as you came to her over the sands?'

“For I had been wondering, off and on, how Irene would greet me when I struck Kansas City.

“Wistfully McMan looked back at the sleepy town, showing a dim white amid the green. The Palma had got under way, and was slipping gayly over the shining waters on her journey to the land of skyscrapers and derby hats. McMan sighed—a tremendous sigh that seemed to shake the steamer.

“'She gave me the devil,' he said, 'for going out in my carpet-slippers.'”

O'Grady paused in his story.

“Have you ever been in the sea at dawn?” he asked, reminiscently, “swiming [sic] for a misty shore, when the first rays of the sun fell red on the water, and the cool breeze was creeping away from the shore. Well, that's where I was the next minute—swimming for that white adobe town as if all the happiness in the world was waiting there. I remember a funny bird was up above me somewhere, circling and diving, and shrieking the cry of the free. I shouted back. The water was cool as—”

“Explain,” I broke in. “Did this Aloysius McMan throw you in?”

“He might have,” answered O'Grady, “but I didn't give him time. I jumped of my own accord. For explanation, I will repeat his words to me, spoken there in the shadow on the deck—the words of Aloysius McMan, little, pitiful, tamed; the longing for the undiscovered lands shining in his eyes, and the heritage of table d'hôtes decorating his middle.

“'I lied to you, O'Grady,' he told me. 'The idea just came to me as I lay there; it dazzled me, and I lied to you. But I enjoyed every minute of it, and I can't say that I'm very sorry. Georgie LaReine turned me down, all right—there in the wings she turned me down. And she shed that tear I spoke of.

“'But she sent for me a week later,' says McMan. 'She sent for me when I was in my room studying the steamship company's come-on books. And I went to her—on the wings of love. It was only a block, but I went on the wings of love. In the ten years we've been married, this is the first time I've been able to pry her loose from the flat in Harlem.'”