The woman, encouraged by many questions from Father Francis, made an extraordinarily good confession, though sometimes he did not seem to be listening very attentively. He thought he could hear the man moving. The man was drunk — drunkenness, the over-indulgence of an appetite, the drunken state. Scholastic psychology. Cardinal Mercier’s book on psychology had got him through the exam at the seminary.
“When you feel you’re going to tell a lie, say a short prayer to Mary, the mother of God,” he said to the woman.
“Yes, Father.”
“Some lies are more serious than others.”
“Yes, Father.”
“But they are lies just the same.”
“I tell mostly white lies,” she said.
“They are lies, lies, lies, just the same. They may not endanger your soul, but they lead to something worse. Do you see?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Will you promise to say a little prayer every time?”
Father Francis could not concentrate on what the woman was saying. But he wanted her to stay there for a long time. She was company. He would try and concentrate on her. He could not forget the drunken man for more than a few moments.
The woman finished her confession. Father Francis, breathing heavily, gave her absolution. Slowly he pushed back the panel — a streetcar, a conductor swinging back the doors on a streetcar. He turned deliberately to the other side of the confessional, but hesitated, eager to turn and hear another confession. It was no use — it couldn’t go on in that way. Closing his eyes he said three “Our Fathers” and three “Hail Marys,” and felt much better. He was calm and the man might have gone.
He tried to push back the panel so it would not make much noise, but moving slowly it grated loudly. He could see the man’s head bobbing up, watching the panel sliding back.
“Yes, my son,” Father Francis said deliberately.
“I got to get off at King and Yonge,” the man said stubbornly.
“You better go, you’ve no business here.”
“Say, there, did you hear me say King and Yonge?”
The man was getting ugly. The whiskey smelled bad in the confessional. Father Francis drew back quickly and half closed the panel. That same grating noise. It put an idea into his head. He said impatiently: “Step lively there; this is King and Yonge. Do you want to go past your stop?”
“All right, brother,” the man said slowly, getting up clumsily.
“Move along now,” Father Francis said authoritatively.
“I’m movin’; don’t get so huffy,” the drunk said, swinging aside the curtains of the confessional, stepping out to the aisle.
Father Francis leaned back and nervously gripped the leather seat. He began to feel very happy. There were no thoughts at all in his head. Suddenly he got up and stepped out to the aisle. He stood watching a man going down the aisle swaying almost imperceptibly. The men and women in the pews watched Father Francis curiously, wondering if he was really unwell because he had come out of the confessional three times in a half-hour. Again he went into the confessional.
At first Father Francis was happy hearing the confessions, but he became restive. He should have used shrewd judgment. With that drunken man he had gone too far, forgotten himself in the confessional. He had descended to artifice in the confessional to save himself from embarrassment.
At the supper table he did not talk much to the other priests. He had a feeling he would not sleep well that night. He would lie awake trying to straighten everything out. The thing would first have to be settled in his own conscience. Then perhaps he would tell the bishop.
A Country Passion
The paper was not interesting and at the end of the column he did not remember what he had been reading, so he tossed the paper on the porch, and slumped back in the chair, looking over into Corley’s backyard.
A clump of lilac trees prevented him from seeing directly through the open door to Corley’s kitchen. Jim Cline, sitting on the porch, could see two wire birdcages on Corley’s back veranda. The faint smell of lilacs pleased him.
Jim got up, leaning over the porch rail and sucked in his upper lip. The mustache tickled him, and he rubbed his hand across his bearded face. Ettie Corley came out and sat down on the back steps. Ettie was sixteen but so backward for her age she had had to quit school. Jim was twenty-nine years older than Ettie. In two days’ time Ettie was to go away to an institution in Barrie. Jim had wanted to marry her but the minister, who had reminded him that he had been in jail four times, would not marry them, so he had come to an agreement with her anyway.
Jim rubbed the toecap of his right boot against the heel of his left. His boots were thick and heavy. He repaired them himself and could not get the soles on evenly. His brother Jake came out and picked up the paper. Jake saw Jim’s forehead wrinkling and knew something was worrying him. One of the canaries in a cage on Corley’s veranda started to sing and Jake looked over and saw Ettie.
“It ain’t no good, Jim.”
“Eh?”
“What’s the matter?”
“Aw, lay off, Jake.”
“Heard up town today they’re thinkin’ of ropin’ you in on somethin’ pretty bad.”
“They roped me in a few times before, didn’t they, Jake?”
“Well, it’s done you no good.”
“Awright, it’s done me no good.”
“It’ll be serious.”
“Who’s going to touch me around here?”
Turning away in disgust he looked through the lilac leaves. Jake thrust his hands in his pockets, then drew out the right one and examined the palm attentively.
“The sun’s hitting the porch,” Jim said suddenly. “I think I’ll go in.” The sun shone on his thick neck. He turned around, shaking his head, and blinked his eyes in the sun.
“Didn’t I buy Corley’s coal last winter? Where’d Ettie be now if it weren’t for me? Where’s her sister gone, running around like a little mink somewhere?”
He went in the house, right through the kitchen to the hall and out to the front steps, and looked around, surprised to find himself facing the street so unexpectedly, then he stared down at a broken picket in the walk. As he looked at the one broken picket, he wondered how he could fix things up with Ettie. Stepping down to the walk he pulled the broken picket from the scantling and tossed it out to the road. Dust formed in a small cloud and drifted toward the green grass on the other side of the road.
He walked across the front of the house and stood at the corner, waving his hand at Ettie. She saw him and came out to the sidewalk and down to Cline’s veranda.
“What do ya want, Jim?”
“What’s up, do you know?”
“I’m kind of scared. They got it out of me.”
“They won’t do nothin’; that’s all right.”
“Can’t we beat it, Jim?”
“No use, you can’t beat it.”
She was a big girl for her age, and her mouth was hanging open, and her dress was four inches above her knees, and her hair uncombed. Jim didn’t notice that her hair wasn’t combed. He was so eager to explain something to her, an idea that might be carried to a point where everything would be satisfactory, but words wouldn’t come readily. It was a feeling inside him but he had no words for it. He felt himself getting hold of a definite thought. Last winter he had wanted to give her some underwear after discovering she had made some herself out of sacking but she had protested strongly against such extravagance.
“I’m going to give you something to wear before you go ’way, Ettie.”
“Aw no, Jim.”
“I’m going to get the car out and we’ll go down-street and get some.”
Half-grinning she wiped away a strand of hair from her face. She looked worried, moistening her lips, and she leaned against the thick poplar tree while he went around the house to get the car. He had a slouchy stride, his wide shoulders swinging as he walked.
The car rocked and swayed comi
ng up the driveway. Ettie got into the car. Passing Corley’s, Jim drove slowly without looking at Ettie. Mrs. Corley came out to the sidewalk, wiping her hands on her apron, shaking her head. She watched the car turn the corner, then went into the house quickly, her loose shoes scraping on the steps.
At the Elton Avenue bridge Jim stopped the car while Noble’s cow crossed, its tail swishing against the rear mudguard. Tommie Noble, following a few paces behind, glanced at Jim and Ettie, then turned his head away. “Go, Boss,” he said, cutting at the cow with a gad. The car jerked forward, Ettie bounced back, her head hitting Jim’s shoulder.
They drove down Main Street and Jim parked the car outside Hunt’s dry goods store. Until the car stopped in front of the store Jim had imagined himself going in with Ettie, but he merely took hold of her by the wrist, giving her an idea of the things he thought she should buy. Ettie giggled a little till Jim took seven dollars out of his pocket and counted it carefully. “Aw gee, Jim, you’d be good to me,” she said.
She got out of the car and walked timidly across the sidewalk to the store. The door closed behind her and Jim fidgeted to get a more comfortable position, one foot thrust over the car door, his eyes closed. Ettie would just about be talking to a clerk, he thought, and imagined the woman taking down from a shelf many flimsy articles for a girl. He hoped Ettie would not buy the first thing shown to her instead of taking time to pick out pale blue, or cream, or even pink, which would be a nice color for a girl. Jim opened his eyes, looking down the street.
Smiling prettily, Ettie crossed over to the car and Jim kicked the door open with his heel. She had the bundle under her arm. “Oh, boy,” she said, climbing into the car. Jim looked at her, her cheeks flushed, eyes bright, and grinning. He started the car. She would become a fine woman later on, he thought.
“We’ll be getting along,” he said cheerfully.
“Ain’t it too bad we got to go home?”
“Aw hell, Ettie.”
The car turned out to the middle of the road, and backed up, and Jim saw the sheriff, Ned Bickle, getting out of a car at the curb. Jack Spratt and Henry Tompkins were with him. The three men, walking alertly, approached Jim’s car.
“Get out of the car, Jim,” the sheriff said.
“What’s the matter, Ned?” Jim said suspiciously, though appearing very friendly. Ned had arrested him three times, twice for stealing chickens, once when he had got into a fight at Clayton’s blind pig, but it had required at least three men to hold him. The sheriff weighed two hundred and twenty-five pounds. His hat was pushed well back on his head, a two days’ growth of hair was on his face. Jim did not look directly at either Tompkins or Spratt, though aware of them as if they had been just a few feet away from him many times before.
“Now Jim, there’s a couple of charges against you. You know how it is, Jim.”
“Awright, go on, don’t get tongue-tied.”
“Well, it’s about Ettie, Jim.”
“What about her?”
“Her old woman’s had a lot to say.”
Jim leaned over the steering wheel, staring at the sheriff, then glancing casually at Ettie, was suddenly disappointed and bewildered. He straightened up, his back erect, resentful, his neck getting red, his mustache twitching till his lower lip moved up and held it. His left foot shot out and the door flew open, catching Tompkins in the middle, forcing him back two or three paces.
Jim jumped out, but tripped on the running board and lurched forward, bumping blindly against Tompkins and spinning halfway round Tompkins, who then wrapped his arms around Jim’s back and held on as Jim tried to swing him off. Twice he swung his shoulders, forcing him down slowly, his knees bending gradually, his feet stationary, his legs held tightly together. They had him. Jim knew when they had him in such a way he couldn’t move. Always they tried to get him the same way. He toppled over on his back and the road bricks hurt his shoulder blades.
“Just a minute now till I get the cuffs out,” the sheriff said.
The cuffs went on easily. Jim stretched out on the road, twisted his head till he could see Ettie, who was standing up in the car, leaning over the seat, crying and yelling, “Leave him alone, do ya hear, leave him alone.”
They hoisted Jim to his feet. He walked willingly to the sheriff’s car. People who had come out of the stores to stand on the curb now formed a ring around the police car. “Aw leave the guy alone,” somebody yelled. Ned Bickle pushed Jim into the back seat and got in beside him. Tompkins stepped into the driver’s seat. Spratt went over to Jim’s car to drive Ettie home.
“This is about the worst you been in yet,” Bickle said to Jim, as the car passed the dry goods store. The sheriff, puffing a little, was smiling contentedly, feeling good-natured.
“Yeah.”
“I’m afraid you’ll do a long stretch, Jim.”
“What for? What gets into you guys?”
“Seduction and abduction we’re calling it, Jim.”
“Aw, lay down.”
Under the maple trees in front of the jail the car stopped. The leaves of the tree were so low they scraped against Jim’s bare head as he stood up to get out. The jail was a one-storey brick building, four cells and a yard with a twelve-foot brick wall. Jim had been in jail three times but had never remained there more than fifteen days.
Tompkins and Spratt followed Jim and the sheriff into the cell and leaned against the wall, very serious while Ned was taking the handcuff from his own wrist, then from Jim’s wrist. Jim, rubbing his wrist, looked at the bare walls, many names written there, his own over at the corner, underneath the window.
“Who else is around?” Jim asked.
“Willie Hopkins.”
“What for?”
“Stealing three barrels of wine from Old Man Stanley’s cellar.”
Jim sat down on the bed and they went out, locking the door carefully. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his chin cupped in his hands, staring at three iron bars in the small window. Sitting there on the bed he felt all right till he remembered that an hour ago he had been sitting on his back porch looking at the lilacs. He got up and walked around the room, his thoughts confused, and when he tried thinking slowly his head seemed to ache. He sat down on the bed to forget all about it, stretching his legs out, his arms behind his head. The sun shone through the window, forming barred squares of light on the opposite wall.
A tap on the door aroused him. “Hey, Jim.” Dannie Parker, the guard, was smiling at him. “Do you want to take some exercise in the yard?”
“Not now,” Jim said mildly.
“Ain’t you feeling well?”
“Awright.”
“Suit yourself then, I thought you’d like to, that’s all.”
Jim lay on the bed till Dannie brought him some supper; cold beef, potatoes, and maple syrup. The meat and potatoes he ate greedily, and liked the maple syrup so much he coaxed Dannie to give him an extra saucerful and promised to play checkers after supper.
For fifteen minutes Jim waited for Dannie to return with the checkerboard. Then he heard Dan’s voice and another voice. The Rev. Arthur Sorrel, a plump, agreeable little man with a small nose, the minister who had refused to marry Ettie and Jim, came into the cell with Dannie.
“Well, Mr. Cline,” he said.
“Well,” Jim said soberly.
“I thought we might want to talk things over.”
“Maybe I’d better get another chair,” Dannie said.
“Don’t bother. I’ll stand, or perhaps sit on the bed.”
Dannie went away. Jim folded his arms across his chest and glared at the minister, who sat down on the edge of the bed.
“I want you to understand, Jim, that I’ll do all in my power to help you. I’m not against you.” The minister scratched his head thoughtfully, rubbing his cheek with the palm of his hand. “But there’s not much I can do for you,” he added.
“There’s only one thing I want to know,” Jim said.
“What’s that
?”
“If I’m guilty, what’ll I get for it?”
“Oh, I don’t know, I’m sure. I mean I can’t say for certain but I’m afraid it will be life and lashes. That’s the usual thing.”
Jim jumped up. “Life?”
“And lashes, yes. But I can do all in my power to have them go easy on the lashes.”
“Life, eh?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Jim sat down, then stretched out on the bed, vaguely aware that the minister was talking but not interested in following the words.
“Ettie is going down to Barrie tomorrow and she’ll be with the Ladies of Charity and I wouldn’t wonder if she grew up to be a decent woman.”
Jim, staring at the ceiling, did not answer.
“Of course she’s had the worst home in town and something should have been done about it long ago,” he said.
Jim did not answer.
The minister got up, slightly irritated, and called through the door to Dannie, who let him out.
Turning over on the bed Jim rubbed his forehead. The minister had said he would get life and he had helped the Corleys and bought coal for them last winter. Everybody in town knew he had bought coal and food and some men had said the Corley kid would be lucky if he married her. Jim sat up, feeling uneasy. He had almost hit upon an idea that would be a solution for everything. Everybody knew it would be best for Ettie to marry him, and Ettie wanted to, and he could go to work, but the people who had arrested him could not understand it. Fiercely indignant, he felt himself getting excited. If he could get out he could explain his idea to everybody and get people behind him. Jim walked over to the window, and looked out over the yard to the tall brick building, the waterworks.
A key turned in the door. “How about the checkers now?” Dannie said.
“I got a headache, Dannie. Can’t I go out in the yard a while?”
“Wouldn’t you like a little game first?”
“I feel kinda rotten, Dannie.”
“Did Sorrel bother you?”
“No, I just feel punk.”
“All right, just as you say.”
Dannie left him alone in the yard. It was about half past seven and the sun was striking the tops of the trees. Jim walked the length of the yard without looking at the walls. Walking back, his eye followed the top line of the wall. He wasn’t thinking of anything, just watching the wall. It was very old. He could remember when it was built twenty-five years ago. Cracks and crevices were spoiling it. One long crevice ran the full height of the wall.
The Complete Stories of Morley Callaghan: Volume One Page 7