Strange Fugitive

by Morley Callaghan

  Stan lost one to Harry. “Life’s pretty serious, isn’t it?” he said. Harry grinned, aware that Stan was a little sore. They played on without talking, the serious way Harry was playing becoming annoying to Stan who pretended it did not matter who won. He wanted to sneer. He was forced to approach the game seriously. He took one of Harry’s checkers, jumping him.

  “Chess is a much better game,” Stan said affably.

  “Try checkers. It’ll hold you awhile.”

  “I’m enjoying it.”

  “So am I.”

  “Let’s see you move then.”

  The play was even until the board was nearly cleared. They weren’t speaking to each other, eyes on the board, no longer trying to conceal anxiety. Vera came into the kitchen and stood at Harry’s shoulder. He was happy. He wasn’t winning but had the feeling of winning. He would win. He had won every time he played Farrel. This was the moment when he became Farrel’s superior, sitting opposite to him, watching his forehead wrinkling as he concentrated and worried over the result of each move.

  “It’s pretty even,” Vera said.

  “Please keep quiet, Vera,” he said sharply.

  Inwardly excited, he took two from Farrel. The game progressed till he got the breeches on him; whichever way Farrel moved, he had to lose one.

  “No use going on,” Farrel said, getting up.

  “Not a bad game, eh?”

  “I’ve played too long as it is, I must be going.”

  “Say Stan, is there anyone else around here who plays checkers? How about the people who live next door?”

  “Don’t know anything about them. I’m going, so long. So long, Mrs. Trotter.”

  “So long.”

  Harry stood at the kitchen window and looked out in the backyard wondering if Mr. Gingras, who lived next door, would be offended if asked to play a game of checkers at such an hour. It was dark out and he could not see much of Gingras’ backyard, but he knew the lawn was trimmed beautifully and bordered with flowers. Gingras was a cranky man and if a baseball were hit from the ballpark into his yard, he always kept it. Along the top of his fence at each side and at the back of the yard was a barbed wire that made it impossible for kids to climb over after a ball. He decided not to ask Mr. Gingras to play checkers.

  “Where are you, Vera?” he called, turning away from the window.

  “In the front room.”

  He went into the front room. She was sitting near the reading lamp. She looked up from the book. “Listen, Vera,” he said. “Do you think Jimmie Nash would come over if I phoned him?”

  “Don’t ask me.”

  “I think I’ll phone him.”

  “What’ll you do, if he’s in?”

  “Maybe go for a little walk, or maybe have a game of checkers.”

  “For heaven’s sake Harry, he won’t want to play checkers.”

  “Why won’t he, how do you know?”

  “I don’t need to be clever to know it. Just the other night you played him game after game till he got blue in the face. People will get tired of you. You don’t want to do anything else but play checkers. What’s the matter with you?”

  “What’s the matter with me?”

  “Yes.”

  “What the hell do you think’s the matter with me?”

  “That’s what I’m asking you, and you don’t need to be too tough.”

  “Well, what’s the matter with you?”

  “For heaven’s sake Harry, go and lie down.”

  “Oh gee, I can’t even hold a conversation with you.”

  She did not answer him. He stood in one spot while she got up and went over to the sideboard. She bent down, then straightened up. She bent down again. His eyes followed one spot on her back. He felt foolish standing there, waiting for her to say something. He turned and went out of the room. In the kitchen he looked indifferently at the checkerboard, then walked along to the bedroom. He turned on the light and looked at his watch. Half-past eleven, too late to go out. He didn’t feel like talking to anybody. He tried thinking of Anna but her image in his thoughts kept fading away and he knew he didn’t want to see her. He lit a cigarette and stretched out on the bed. He smiled a little, thinking of the game with Farrel, and then of fellows who might want to play checkers. He remembered beating Jimmie Nash, and the fine feeling. Jimmie had yawned and said checkers was simply a matter of concentration requiring no great skill. They had gone for a long walk afterward and sitting in an ice-cream parlour had talked of the magazine job and Pape’s lumberyard, and the new foreman, a wiry little guy called Billie who had a wife that cost him a lot of money for operations.

  Lying on the bed, his ankles crossed, he thought of the compartment he had made for himself in the warehouse. At five o’clock, washed up and clean, he walked along the platform, feeling fine, his shoes shining. He passed Hohnsburger and punched the clock sharply without speaking to anybody. He was becoming restless and uneasy and tried to stop thinking of the yard. He got up and stood before the mirror, looking at himself closely. Isaac Pimblett had taken a fancy to him. The trouble had been that he was married. Such a damn fool notion. Isaac was really funny when he got talking about the cathedral. Even at that, he probably had some good ideas about marriage.

  He walked into the front room. Vera was reading the book again. She didn’t look up when he stood beside her. He went back to the kitchen, got the checkerboard, opened it and placed it on the table. He arranged the checkers on the board and went back to the front room.

  “Vera.”

  “Please let me read, Harry.”

  “Come on and play checkers, Vera.”

  She closed the book abruptly. “I don’t want to play checkers,” she said positively.

  “Well, I do.”

  “I can’t help it, I want to read.”

  “I want to play checkers and you’ve got to play.”

  “I don’t got to at all. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.”

  “Come on, I tell ya.”

  “No.”

  He grabbed hold of her, hoisting her out of the chair. She kicked, squirmed and pulled his hair. She saw that he was carrying her into the kitchen and bit his neck. He shook her roughly and she let go his neck. He placed her on a chair at the end of the kitchen table. She looked at him, breathing heavily, her eyes moist. “You big fool,” she said.

  “I want to play checkers,” he said indifferently.

  She leaned back, crying a little. “I said I didn’t want to play.”

  “Come on Vera, be a sport, just one game.”

  “All right, only you’re a big bully, a big bully.”

  “All right, I’m a big bully.”

  They played checkers. She played indifferently, he, cautiously. She was not trying and he insisted she make every move carefully. “You’re not half trying,” he said. She got slightly interested but could not beat him. Playing skillfully, he beat her badly, getting a good deal of satisfaction out of it.

  The game was over and he grinned cheerfully. “Not so bad, Vera old girl, eh,” he said. He was in good humour. She smiled at him. He pushed the board away, reached across the table and took hold of her. He kissed her until he didn’t want to kiss her any more.

  3

  He lay in bed and could not go to sleep. He turned toward Vera and put his arm around her to assure her there was no reason for disagreement, but could not do it because the words he put together to shape his thoughts seemed silly. There was no reason for assurance. He had no explanation of his restlessness. They argued, tried to agree, felt sorry for each other. He was wide awake. He heard Vera breathing lightly and, listening carefully, felt far away from her though he could have put out his arm and touched her. He listened to her breathing regularly, curiously detached, aware merely of a woman lying beside him, and he thought of her as Vera, but she had no further reality for him. If she awakened and argued with him at that moment, he knew he would be neither angry nor irritated. He would listen to her unmoved, hardly int
erested. They simply weren’t getting on together. It wasn’t her fault, it wasn’t his fault. He wanted to be away from her though he loved her. “She’d be happier by herself,” he thought. He lay on his back imagining Vera living by herself with enough money so she would not have to work, going the orderly way of her own life, having her own enthusiasms, possibly becoming a Catholic. Often she would maybe think of him, and he would think of her, if away from her, and she would like thinking of him. Later on they might decide to live together again but not out of necessity. She would find friends of her own. He wondered if she would allow a man to love her. He didn’t like thinking of it. Perhaps they could come to some agreement that would permit him to go away for a time, then she would likely keep away from other fellows, though he knew she wouldn’t hesitate to give herself to a fellow if in love with him. Anyway, if he went out selling magazines, he would be away all week, coming home over the weekend, and it would be easy to form a habit of not coming home at all.

  He was looking up at the ceiling. The room was dark but his eyes were accustomed to it and he saw clearly various objects in the room. He turned his head on the pillow, looking at the back of Vera’s head. He put his hand on her shoulder and shook her gently till she stirred uneasily.

  “Vera. Vera.”

  She was awake. Half turning her head she said: “What do you want?”

  “I want to talk to you.”

  “I’m too sleepy.”

  “Listen, Vera.”

  “What?”

  “Have you been thinking of being by yourself?”

  “I don’t know, I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

  “Vera.”

  “What?”

  “This is important.”

  “For heaven’s sake, what do you want, go on to sleep.”

  “Listen, Vera, if I go on the road with Jimmie you won’t see much of me for some time.” He talked slowly, hesitating. She was awake and listening. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ll be away.”

  “You’ll be in regularly, won’t you?”

  “Listen, Vera.”

  “I’m listening I tell you.”

  He looked down the length of the bed. His toes stuck up under the sheets. He saw a tip of the moon through the windows at the foot of the bed. The conversation was not going the right way.

  “We haven’t been getting on well together,” he said, feeling his way.

  “Not exactly. Things really don’t seem to be going right, but we haven’t been watching ourselves have we?”

  “No, we haven’t, but what’s the use watching yourself?”

  She put her hand on his shoulder, then touched his neck gently with her fingers.

  “Don’t do that,” he said sharply.

  “What’s the matter with it?”

  “You don’t own me.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly.”

  “I’m not silly, I tell you.”

  “You’re too silly for words.”

  “I tell you you don’t own me. That’s clear ain’t it? That’s what I’m getting at, see. I mean we get on each other’s nerves. We irritate each other. We probably need to be alone a long while till we get going again, instead of wasting time getting in each other’s way.”

  “Say what you mean, Harry,” she said quietly.

  “That’s what I mean. We need a long holiday from each other,” he said rapidly.

  “Well, what are you going to do about it?”

  He lay there, looking at the side of her face out of the corner of his eye, wondering what she was going to say.

  “Well, you know I’m going away on the road with Nash,” he said.

  “I know that.”

  “I don’t think we should bother each other. I want to be alone and not have to think about anyone. I want to drift wherever I feel like. I don’t want to be tied to thoughts of anyone.”

  “Well.”

  “I don’t want to quarrel with you. I don’t want to do anything to make you different, just leave you going your own way.”

  “I suppose I’ll always feel the same, eh?”

  “Yeah, I’d like to think so.”

  “And what would I do, stay by myself while you had a good time running around with any little hussy you can pick up, gadding about from town to town? Not on your life. If you want to do that, I’ll find my own company, and I won’t go slowly either.”

  “That’s up to you.”

  “You’re crazy, Harry.”

  “All right, I’m crazy.”

  “You’re crazy as a loon, I tell you.”

  “Maybe so.”

  “Suit yourself, then, only you’ll have to give me money.”

  “I will.”

  “I tell you you’re mad, mad as a hatter. Harry?”

  “What?”

  “Harry.”

  “Don’t, Vera. Stop. Don’t touch me. I tell ya I don’t feel like it.”

  He got out of bed and in his bare feet walked over to the window. He looked out over backyards and fences and trees. On the other side of the ballpark a light was in the front room of a house. A tree was in front of the house and the light shone through the leaves of the tree. He half turned. Vera was not moving. Then he heard her crying softly. He was waiting for her to cry and wanted things to get beyond that point. She was crying much louder and sniffing. “Harry,” she said. He did not answer her. He looked steadily out of the window. The new moon was bright in the clear sky. Patches of light were on garage roofs and long shadows in yards. Over the roofs of houses, downtown, he could see an electric sign flashing intermittently, and though he watched carefully, couldn’t spell it out. He wasn’t thinking of anything, just watching patches of light on the ground and on bushes in Gingras’ backyard. A few years ago the ballpark had been a hollow. The hollow had been filled in. He and his brother had had a lot of fun in the hollow under the big willow tree. The brother, now in Michigan, had come home ten years ago for his mother’s funeral. He hadn’t heard from him since, though he had wanted him to go back to Michigan with him. The light in the window behind trees across the park went out. It would be a good idea to write his brother, he thought, and see if there was anything doing in lumberyards over there. Everything quiet outside. The sky getting lighter. He could make out fences, shrubs, clothes props in backyards. He heard a streetcar rattling over an intersection at the corner, then going smoothly until he could not hear it. He stood there, thoughts no longer coming easily to him. Next week the league that played in the ballpark would be through for the season. He listened and couldn’t hear Vera breathing; she had stopped crying. He felt like waking her, explaining he was sorry. It wouldn’t do any good in the long run.

  He walked over to the bed. She was sleeping, the night light from the window touching her features so she looked strangely foreign. A long time ago she had said there was a bit of Russian blood in her. He got into bed carefully so he would not disturb her.

  She was up before him next morning. She got breakfast and they did not talk of the conversation of the night before. She was agreeable. They talked pleasantly. She asked what he intended to do in the evening. He said he had nothing to do. She suggested he have Jimmie Nash come over. She was so agreeable he did not want to start an argument. All morning he was around the house, reading papers. He felt much better, having explained to her the way he was feeling.

  In the afternoon he went downtown, as usual, to get a paper and look for a job, but didn’t bother much, now no longer anxious to discover a job, suddenly having made up his mind to go out canvassing.

  In the evening, at half-past eight, Jimmie came over and they sat around the house. Vera was friendly with Jimmie. He liked talking to her. She liked him because he talked so easily and agreeably, always aware of her as a woman rather than the wife of his friend. They were sitting in the sunroom. Vera, looking out, saw Stan Farrel and his wife standing in the backyard.

  “The Farrels are going downtown tonight,” she said.

  “No place whe
re he intends to enjoy himself, I’ll bet,” Harry said, “or he wouldn’t be taking her with him.”

  “That guy’s got a way all his own with his wife,” Jimmie said.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Don’t you notice how he patronizes her?”

  “That’s an old story.”

  “I don’t think she’s used to being taken seriously,” Vera said.

  “He’s got it all worked out,” Jimmie said. “He explained it to me just about the first time he met me.”

  “How come?”

  “He told me never to marry a clever woman, then he quoted some venerable Frenchman. The point was that if you marry a clever woman you are more or less responsible for everything she says. People take her seriously and you are handicapped. On the other hand if you marry a rather dull woman, everybody sympathizes with you whatever she says. Get the point?”

  “Mr. Farrel explains himself,” Vera laughed.

  “He likes explaining why he didn’t marry a clever woman,” Harry said.

  “He makes me tired,” Vera said. “Who are the Farrels anyway? I’ve heard his father drank heavily and his family simply didn’t count for anything.”

  “Well, don’t hold that against him,” Harry said.

  “I’m not holding it against him. Just pointing out that his family weren’t up to much.”

  “Well, whose is for that matter around here?”

  “Don’t forget my old pioneer stock,” Jimmie said jovially.

  “Pioneer stock?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Say, I’ll tell you a story about pioneer stock and my grandfather,” Harry said.

  “What’s it about, Harry?” Vera asked.

  “Go on, tell us about Grampapa,” Jimmie said.

  “The old boy was a real pioneer in these parts, only he died rather young. He used to be the skeleton in the family closet. He was a great drinker. My father once told me that he could drink more than six ordinary men, so he didn’t have an ordinary end.” He told how his grandfather had been drinking nearly all day at a tavern a little way up Yonge Street, now the main thoroughfare. In the evening someone had offered to help him on the way home, but very dignified, he wouldn’t hear of it. He got lost in the dark on the way home and didn’t get home all night. They went looking for him and found him all right. He had fallen into a horse trough, and too drunk to get out, was drowned.”