CHAPTER XXII

by Sinclair Lewis

　　CHAPTER XXIIIHE drove to the City Prison, not blindly, but with unusual fussy care atcorners, the fussiness of an old woman potting plants. It kept him fromfacing the obscenity of fate.The attendant said, "Naw, you can't see any of the prisoners tillthree-thirty--visiting-hour."It was three. For half an hour Babbitt sat looking at a calendar anda clock on a whitewashed wall. The chair was hard and mean and creaky.People went through the office and, he thought, stared at him. He felta belligerent defiance which broke into a wincing fear of this machinewhich was grinding Paul--Paul----Exactly at half-past three he sent in his name.The attendant returned with "Riesling says he don't want to see you.""You're crazy! You didn't give him my name! Tell him it's George wantsto see him, George Babbitt.""Yuh, I told him, all right, all right! He said he didn't want to seeyou.""Then take me in anyway.""Nothing doing. If you ain't his lawyer, if he don't want to see you,that's all there is to it.""But, my GOD--Say, let me see the warden.""He's busy. Come on, now, you--" Babbitt reared over him. The attendanthastily changed to a coaxing "You can come back and try to-morrow.Probably the poor guy is off his nut."Babbitt drove, not at all carefully or fussily, sliding viciously pasttrucks, ignoring the truckmen's curses, to the City Hall; he stoppedwith a grind of wheels against the curb, and ran up the marble steps tothe office of the Hon. Mr. Lucas Prout, the mayor. He bribed the mayor'sdoorman with a dollar; he was instantly inside, demanding, "You rememberme, Mr. Prout? Babbitt--vice-president of the Boosters--campaigned foryou? Say, have you heard about poor Riesling? Well, I want an order onthe warden or whatever you call um of the City Prison to take me backand see him. Good. Thanks."In fifteen minutes he was pounding down the prison corridor to a cagewhere Paul Riesling sat on a cot, twisted like an old beggar, legscrossed, arms in a knot, biting at his clenched fist.Paul looked up blankly as the keeper unlocked the cell, admittedBabbitt, and left them together. He spoke slowly: "Go on! Be moral!"Babbitt plumped on the couch beside him. "I'm not going to be moral!I don't care what happened! I just want to do anything I can. I'm gladZilla got what was coming to her."Paul said argumentatively, "Now, don't go jumping on Zilla. I've beenthinking; maybe she hasn't had any too easy a time. Just after I shother--I didn't hardly mean to, but she got to deviling me so I wentcrazy, just for a second, and pulled out that old revolver you and Iused to shoot rabbits with, and took a crack at her. Didn't hardly meanto--After that, when I was trying to stop the blood--It was terriblewhat it did to her shoulder, and she had beautiful skin--Maybe she won'tdie. I hope it won't leave her skin all scarred. But just afterward,when I was hunting through the bathroom for some cotton to stop theblood, I ran onto a little fuzzy yellow duck we hung on the tree oneChristmas, and I remembered she and I'd been awfully happy then--Hell. Ican't hardly believe it's me here." As Babbitt's arm tightened abouthis shoulder, Paul sighed, "I'm glad you came. But I thought maybe you'dlecture me, and when you've committed a murder, and been brought hereand everything--there was a big crowd outside the apartment house, allstaring, and the cops took me through it--Oh, I'm not going to talkabout it any more."But he went on, in a monotonous, terrified insane mumble. To divert himBabbitt said, "Why, you got a scar on your cheek.""Yes. That's where the cop hit me. I suppose cops get a lot of fun outof lecturing murderers, too. He was a big fellow. And they wouldn't letme help carry Zilla down to the ambulance.""Paul! Quit it! Listen: she won't die, and when it's all over you andI'll go off to Maine again. And maybe we can get that May Arnold togo along. I'll go up to Chicago and ask her. Good woman, by golly. Andafterwards I'll see that you get started in business out West somewhere,maybe Seattle--they say that's a lovely city."Paul was half smiling. It was Babbitt who rambled now. He could not tellwhether Paul was heeding, but he droned on till the coming of Paul'slawyer, P. J. Maxwell, a thin, busy, unfriendly man who nodded atBabbitt and hinted, "If Riesling and I could be alone for a moment--"Babbitt wrung Paul's hands, and waited in the office till Maxwell camepattering out. "Look, old man, what can I do?" he begged."Nothing. Not a thing. Not just now," said Maxwell. "Sorry. Got tohurry. And don't try to see him. I've had the doctor give him a shot ofmorphine, so he'll sleep."It seemed somehow wicked to return to the office. Babbitt felt as thoughhe had just come from a funeral. He drifted out to the City Hospital toinquire about Zilla. She was not likely to die, he learned. The bulletfrom Paul's huge old .44 army revolver had smashed her shoulder and tornupward and out.He wandered home and found his wife radiant with the horifiedinterest we have in the tragedies of our friends. "Of course Paul isn'taltogether to blame, but this is what comes of his chasing after otherwomen instead of bearing his cross in a Christian way," she exulted.He was too languid to respond as he desired. He said what was to be saidabout the Christian bearing of crosses, and went out to clean the car.Dully, patiently, he scraped linty grease from the drip-pan, gougedat the mud caked on the wheels. He used up many minutes in washing hishands; scoured them with gritty kitchen soap; rejoiced in hurting hisplump knuckles. "Damn soft hands--like a woman's. Aah!"At dinner, when his wife began the inevitable, he bellowed, "I forbidany of you to say a word about Paul! I'll 'tend to all the talking aboutthis that's necessary, hear me? There's going to be one house inthis scandal-mongering town to-night that isn't going to spring theholier-than-thou. And throw those filthy evening papers out of thehouse!"But he himself read the papers, after dinner.Before nine he set out for the house of Lawyer Maxwell. He was receivedwithout cordiality. "Well?" said Maxwell."I want to offer my services in the trial. I've got an idea. Whycouldn't I go on the stand and swear I was there, and she pulled the gunfirst and he wrestled with her and the gun went off accidentally?""And perjure yourself?""Huh? Yes, I suppose it would be perjury. Oh--Would it help?""But, my dear fellow! Perjury!""Oh, don't be a fool! Excuse me, Maxwell; I didn't mean to get yourgoat. I just mean: I've known and you've known many and many a case ofperjury, just to annex some rotten little piece of real estate, andhere where it's a case of saving Paul from going to prison, I'd perjuremyself black in the face.""No. Aside from the ethics of the matter, I'm afraid it isn'tpracticable. The prosecutor would tear your testimony to pieces. It'sknown that only Riesling and his wife were there at the time.""Then, look here! Let me go on the stand and swear--and this would bethe God's truth--that she pestered him till he kind of went crazy.""No. Sorry. Riesling absolutely refuses to have any testimony reflectingon his wife. He insists on pleading guilty.""Then let me get up and testify something--whatever you say. Let me doSOMETHING!""I'm sorry, Babbitt, but the best thing you can do--I hate to say it,but you could help us most by keeping strictly out of it."Babbitt, revolving his hat like a defaulting poor tenant, winced sovisibly that Maxwell condescended:"I don't like to hurt your feelings, but you see we both want to do ourbest for Riesling, and we mustn't consider any other factor. The troublewith you, Babbitt, is that you're one of these fellows who talk tooreadily. You like to hear your own voice. If there were anything forwhich I could put you in the witness-box, you'd get going and give thewhole show away. Sorry. Now I must look over some papers--So sorry."IIHe spent most of the next morning nerving himself to face the garrulousworld of the Athletic Club. They would talk about Paul; they wouldbe lip-licking and rotten. But at the Roughnecks' Table they did notmention Paul. They spoke with zeal of the coming baseball season. Heloved them as he never had before.IIIHe had, doubtless from some story-book, pictured Paul's trial as along struggle, with bitter arguments, a taut crowd, and sudden andoverwhelming new testimony. Actually, the trial occupied less thanfifteen minutes, largely filled with the evidence of doctors that Zillawould recover and that Paul must have been temporarily insane. Next dayPaul was sentenced to three years in the State Penitentiary and takenoff--quite undramatically, not handcuffed, merely plodding in a tiredway beside a cheerful deputy sheriff--and after saying good-by to himat the station Babbitt returned to his office to realize that he faced aworld which, without Paul, was meaningless.