Such Is My Beloved

by Morley Callaghan

  In the hotel, when they had thrown off their coats, the three of them were dispirited for a moment, though Lou was still determined to go on burlesquing the priest. This kind of mockery made him very jolly. As he stood in the middle of the floor looking around for something he might use as a stage prop, he grinned and practised raising his heavy eyebrows, shooting them up high on his forehead, then lowering them and bowing his head slightly. He wanted to find something in the room that would look like a Roman collar, but nothing attracted him. In the end he took out his handkerchief, tied it around his neck and looking very much like a gunman he went to the door and pretended to be coming into the room. In a deep, hollow voice, he said, “Am I disturbing you, girls? Go right ahead with whatever you’re doing. I’ll just sit here and take it all in. I’ve got my eye on one of you little sisters, but I’m not telling you which one it is. That’s a surprise I’m keeping till I get her alone. Let us pray.”

  “You don’t look like Father Dowling at all, Lou,” Ronnie said. “What do I look like? Take a good look at me.”

  “You look like you might be going to hold up a bank.”

  “I thought I looked as if I might be going to lift up a skirt.”

  As soon as she heard Father Dowling’s name, Midge wished he would come that night to see them, and she was not wishing now out of any regret for mockery, or feeling of uneasiness, but it seemed to her that neither Lou nor Ronnie, nor anybody else but him in the city could understand the way she was feeling.

  “Does Lou seem to you to be very funny to-night?” she asked Ronnie. “He’s a cute fellow always, I know, but does he seem funny to you?”

  “What’s the matter with him, Midge? Why have you got your knife in Lou?”

  “I’m sick sitting here listening to him. Why don’t you tell him to take a run around the block?”

  “You know what’s the matter with that dame,” Lou said. “She’s worried. Count out anything she says. Anyway, who the hell’s this Father Dowling? What do you think he’s after? What’s there in it for him? The trouble with Midge is she just wants to play him herself.”

  “You’re crazy, Lou. She never asks him for no more than he gives me.”

  “How do you know what she’s getting out of him? Is she telling you? I don’t trust that dame.”

  “If you don’t get out of here, Lou, I’ll throw that bottle at you,” Midge said. “I’m sick listening to you. You come hanging around here cutting in on every penny Ronnie makes and God knows what for. I could never see you for trees. Now get out of here quick.”

  But Lou walked over slowly and stood beside her, thinking of beating her as he had once beaten her before when she had caused trouble between him and Ronnie. “I’ll smack you, sister. I’ll smack you down and give you plenty,” he said solemnly. But Ronnie grabbed hold of him by the arm and said, “Please, Lou, go on out. Do it for me. Can’t you see she’s feeling bad and things look blue for the poor kid. Go on, honey. She’s feeling like a nut now.”

  Lou glowered at both of them, then he turned, and, with a lofty contempt for women, he picked up his hat and coat and rushed out without putting them on.

  And Ronnie sat down beside Midge and said, “Gee, kid, I wish you wouldn’t try and get Lou sore on me. I don’t know what I’d do without Lou. I don’t want ever to be without him. See, baby?”

  “I didn’t want to cause any trouble, Ronnie.”

  “I know. I know the way you’re feeling. You ain’t no trouble.”

  “You know the way I’m feeling? I don’t know as you do. To-day I read my teacup. I saw a ship, or it might have been a tombstone.”

  “Aren’t you sure it was a ship?”

  “I say it might have been a ship but I thought it was a tombstone and that means I’m going to die.”

  “How do you know you’re going to die? You can’t believe in teacups, not in all you see in teacups, but if it was me…”

  “If it was you…”

  “I’d say, what’s the difference, kiddo. Supposing you die, where are you? And supposing you live, where are you? And you can’t always go by teacups.”

  “That’s why I say it might have been a ship. Is that some one at the door?”

  “Some one’s tapping on the door.”

  “Sh, sh, sh, I’ll die if I see a soul. I don’t want to see a soul.”

  “Maybe it’s Lou,” Ronnie said.

  “It can’t be Lou. I know Lou and you know Lou, he’d come right in. Maybe it’s the priest.”

  “It might be the priest.”

  “Then he’ll come back. I know the priest.”

  “There he goes. I can hear him on the stair.”

  “I’m glad he’s gone. I want to be alone. I’d like to sit and figure it out. It might have been a ship, but it looked like a tombstone. Sit down, Ronnie, and don’t keep listening. Talk and talk and talk to me.”

  TWELVE

  Lou left the hotel, walking slowly, with his head down, and even if he had to walk all night, he intended to think through the problem clearly. For days he had felt the simplicity, comfort and security of his life being menaced. There had been for a long time a fine orderliness about his life that made him feel honest and almost respectable. As he shuffled along slowly, he couldn’t figure out why the priest wanted to disturb a life that had become so pleasant. He felt uneasily that he might lose Ronnie; to-night in the hotel there had been a quarrel about the priest. “I’d like to wring Midge’s neck,” he thought. “I never did like her. She’s a little snip.”

  Lou had never felt so insulted and injured; he longed to go home and talk to his mother and sister, only he felt sure they would look at him dumbly with silent, white faces. The last time he had gone home his mother, a little woman, who was too old to work, had screamed, “You’re no son of mine. Lord help me. You’re a rebuke from God for some sin of my youth. Get out of here, you scamp.” Then his thin-faced sister, Gertie, had tried to push him out of the house and he had found it necessary to take hold of her by the neck till she had struggled and panted and in a weak whisper promised to keep her hands off him. Of course, Lou knew his family really loved him. Even on that night, after the shouting and pushing, he had stayed with them for two or three hours, patting his mother’s back and kissing her; and he had put his arms around Gertie, too, and finally, after he had talked persuasively a long time, they had begun to understand that it was difficult in these hard times for a young man to find steady employment. They had begun to speak tenderly; they had wanted to loan him money. His mother, breathing hard and saying, “Dear, oh dear, where did I put it?” had hunted all over the house for her purse, and Gertie had run upstairs and come down eagerly with a smile and a two-dollar bill.

  But Lou knew that if he went home now, they would try again to keep him out of the house. Instead of thinking about his family, he began to remember with a wonder and tenderness the first time he had ever met Ronnie. Two years ago it was; a pal of his, phoning him at three o’clock in the morning, had got him out of bed and the friend had said he was at a party, where there was a girl who felt sure she would like Lou just from hearing them all talking about him. “I’ve been telling her about you, Lou. She wants a fellow and she thinks you sound mighty fine. She wants a fellow with class and plenty of nerve.” Lou had got dressed and had gone to the party and had met Ronnie. Lou was not surprised to learn that the girl had heard so many fine stories about him; he was really astonished to find that he liked her so very much.

  “We just seemed to be thrown together by what you might call fate. Just like two peas in a pod,” he thought. “So I’m not going to stand for anybody cutting in.” Walking with his shoulders held so that his whole body was leaning back, he felt like a strong, powerful man. Though he stared defiantly at anybody who noticed him, he remained puzzled and worried. Never in his life had he felt so indignant, and there was such strength within him that he forgot he was a little fellow, and said, “I’ll see this thing right through, myself.”

  Wh
en he crossed the road at the corner, heading for the club over the restaurant, the light shone on his sober, worried face and threw a long shadow of him on the road, with one hand in his pocket, his narrow shoulders still thrust back.

  In the poolroom he went from one table to another, staring at the green surfaces of the tables under the pyramids of white light, grinning at friends, passing on restlessly till at last he sat down all alone on the bench by the wall. He hardly looked up even when some one spoke to him. Here he was a man whom everybody respected. He never asked assistance; no one was a better pool player; he was never in trouble with the police; he was a little man, but very tough and afraid of nobody, who sat there facing a problem as if he knew the high regard his friends had for him, and it was an obligation to preserve this respect. A big man in a peak cap, Red Hertz, an old friend with two or three women on a string, and vast experience with all kinds of trouble, came up and sat down beside him and tried to talk about the horses, but Lou shook his head ruthlessly and went on making his plan. Then he got up slowly, smiled very coldly at Red Hertz, said, “I’ll be seeing you,” and was thinking, “I’ll talk right to that priest’s face and let him know where he stands. I’ve got my life, and he’s got his. Everything used to go along smoothly enough.”

  Once again he looked around at his friends; not one could help him; not one of them had ever faced such a situation. So he left the poolroom, touching his hat as a polite gesture to two fellows who called out to him, and went out to the street, breathing much easier because there was a sound plan building itself up in his head. On the way back to the hotel he walked almost sedately, feeling like a very competent man.

  The proprietor, who saw him coming in, beckoned to him. “Come here, Lou,” he called. Mr. Baer, a man Lou admired, who had never been arrested for anything, had a very quiet manner, a cynical smile and talked usually in a whisper that sometimes got hoarse, but was always confidential. From the girls he firmly took money for the rooms, but still, if they had a bad week, he was not insistent, he gave them credit, and in this way kept them contented and yet always in debt to him. He never lost money, because he was such a good judge of a girl’s character.

  “What do you want, Mr. Baer?” he asked.

  “You’d better not go upstairs. That priest is up there.”

  “That’s fine,” Lou said flatly. “Then I’m going up. He’s the guy I want to see.”

  “What’s the use of making trouble?”

  “I’ll not make trouble, only those girls may start taking him seriously. Then where do I come in? Where do you come in? I’m not the guy to take that lying down.”

  “I’m laughing, Lou. There’s no chance of that.”

  “It would be fine if they didn’t, but I don’t like the look of him. You can’t tell about priests. I don’t like priests.”

  “Hey, Lou, come here. You’re a sensible guy, a man like myself, that’s why I like you. Listen to this. Don’t make any trouble around here, and get this into your head. It’s all the same to me whether they take a rabbit or a priest or a czar of Russia up there, so long as they make it pay. Do you see?”

  Lou still felt strong and eager and capable of developing his own plan, but he glanced at Mr. Baer very cautiously and said, “Maybe you’re right.” So he did not go upstairs. He began to see that it was better to have Ronnie get as much money as she could from the priest, and while he smiled coldly at Mr. Baer, he began to weigh the profit from the transaction against the possibility of the priest persuading Ronnie to leave him. “I don’t know what I’d do without the kid now. We’re used to each other,” he thought uneasily.

  Then he grinned all over his face as he remembered suddenly, “Say, what would she do without me? What on earth would the kid do without me? She’d be weaker than a kitten.” So then he felt absolutely sure of her and he smiled, showing his teeth, and stuck out his chest and began to swagger out to the street. He felt very strong and sure of himself again. He enjoyed this new strong feeling of security all the way back to the poolroom.

  THIRTEEN

  Often Father Dowling stayed so late with the two girls it was embarrassing to have to go home, for the other priests had begun to notice that he sometimes came in after midnight. They were talking about him in such a way that the words they used barely trembled with the faintest, slyest inferences. Sometimes they even regarded him very thoughtfully. He was still giving money to Ronnie and Midge and sometimes little presents like chocolates and flowers, as though they were shy, timid girls. He had got to know when they were feeling gay or sorrowful and even when they were deceiving him, and knowing their weakness and shameless deceits so well only made him love them all the more. He could see that Midge was sick, for she had become thin and bad-tempered, but he dreaded to find out what was the matter with her, as though there were diseases that might mark the final depth of her degradation. His love for these two girls was so great now that he longed for them to remain always a part of his life.

  When he was leaving them one night, they looked at him solemnly, glanced at each other, and Ronnie said, “I don’t know what we’ll do now, Father.”

  “What’s the matter now, child? I thought you both seemed quite happy.”

  “Midge ain’t feeling well, Father.”

  “I know. God help her. I was thinking about her last night. What’s the matter with her?”

  The girls looked at each other uneasily and finally Ronnie said, “It’s a sickness you mightn’t know about. It’s like…I tell you what it’s like, it’s like a woman’s trouble. That’s it.”

  “Hasn’t it a name? It must have a name.”

  “Then I don’t know the name. It’s just a complaint. Like a woman’s complaint,” Ronnie lied to him. “I’m sure you wouldn’t know about it.”

  “She ought to see a doctor.”

  “She ought to go to a doctor and maybe go to a hospital and be looked after in proper style. If we only had a few dollars to last a few weeks it would make all the difference in the world. Don’t you see what I’m driving at?”

  Midge remained silent, staring at the priest mournfully, pleading with her round eyes like a child that hopes nothing will be denied her. Father Dowling was suddenly full of longing to be able to take the girls far away from the city, to free them once and forever, but he was helpless. His hand went mechanically to his pocket, he sighed and muttered, “I wish I could do something. I’ve nothing now.”

  “There’s not much for us to do then,” Ronnie said sullenly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You can take three guesses about what it will have to be.”

  “We’ve got to do something,” Midge said, hurting him ruthlessly even while feeling a bit of sympathy for him. She looked haggard, desperate, but she smiled slyly at Ronnie.

  “It’s a terrible situation,” he said, rubbing the tips of his fingers on his cheekbone. He was trying to think of some place where he might get money. His foot began to drum nervously on the floor and then began a tapping beyond all control. His shoe was slapping on the carpet. “The main thing is, don’t feel impatient. Don’t feel uneasy. I’ll help you. To-night or to-morrow night. Something will turn up,” he said. He smiled so warmly and with such hope that they kept on grinning even after he had gone.

  The priest’s allowance was no more than fifty dollars a month and from that sum he always put aside a few dollars to send to his mother. In the town where he had lived before going to the seminary, his family had been very poor, but his mother, a determined, ambitious woman, had longed for him to be a priest, and his brother, too, had wanted a priest in the family. So his brother had supported him and his mother during the long years at school. “I ought never to neglect sending money home. But I wonder what’s the matter with Midge? She ought to be sent to a doctor.” He kept on hearing Ronnie say, “There’s nothing else for us to do. We’ve got to try and keep ourselves in some way.” With sudden eagerness he tried to pretend to himself that his mother would approve of
him giving money to the girls, although he secretly knew well that she would despise them without ever trying to understand them. In the last few months money that ought to have gone home to his mother had gone to the girls, and as he began to realize how he had neglected his obligation, he found himself thinking of those days when he had been a student and had gone home for the holidays. His mother waited on him with devotion; his brother brought him presents; the neighbors whispered that his family had no right to be spending so much money on an education for Stephen when they were so poor. It was all pride and vanity on the part of the mother, they said. Sometimes he himself had wondered whether his mother was a very pious or a very proud woman. But those evenings in the summer were fine and joyful, when he and his mother and brother sat on the front porch that was covered by the leaves from the big elm tree, and rocked back and forth lazily on their chairs while the boards squeaked and he answered their eager questions and they listened to the sound of the lake water lapping on the shore just beyond the end of the street. At such times he had felt their tremendous happiness, especially during those moments when they were silent. It had always been understood among them that when Stephen became a priest, he would support the mother and give his brother a chance to save some money. As Father Dowling walked along, he began to remember what the town and the surrounding country would be like at this time of year, when the snow was going and there would be strong spring sunlight. All those northern hills beyond the town that were so blue in the summer time would now be bare and the sun would shine on the naked slopes and make them seem from the bay like fields of yellow wheat, and on top of the great hills the snow patches would remain to glisten brilliantly in the late afternoon. The bay and the lake would be intensely blue, but there would be the long white margin of broken ice along the shore.