“It was an embarrassing situation all tight,” Bill said.
“He feels bad enough as it is and I probably made him feel worse,” she said. “I feel like running away.”
“There’s no use feeling that way, dear. He’s probably just an old fellow out of work, or maybe even he doesn’t work. You can’t tell. It’s all right. He ought to be grateful.”
“If he was out of work it would make him feel more resentful.”
“Forget about it, dear. There are plenty of men out of work these says and if you offer a bum a dime and he won’t take it, well, lots will, so he’s got no reason to be snooty.”
“He wasn’t a bum and it was a quarter, not a dime, that I offered him,” she said shortly.
“Don’t argue, just stop worrying.”
“I’m not arguing. But I do wish you wouldn’t seem so insensitive.”
“I just don’t want you worrying. We’ve got to look after you now.”
“Can’t I regret that he’s sitting there looking so hopeless? Doesn’t it make any impression on you at all?”
“Sure it does. But day after day you see a lot of guys like that and you get used to them.”
“There’s a ruthless streak in you, I guess, Bill. That’s what I was saying to you a while ago when we first came into the park and you were strutting along beside me and not worrying about me at all. You were grinning and thinking of yourself,” she said excitedly. “You thought it made a man feel expansive. Thinking of yourself and not wondering at all about what I’d have to put up with.”
He tried to plead with her, coaxing her with soft words, but she pushed his arm away and walked on alone, a sullen frown remaining on her face. And for no reason, she began to think that the afternoon sunlight was hot and withering, drying up the little bit of freshness there was in the park. Now she had none of the contentment she had had half an hour ago, instead there was fear in her, not fear of physical pain, but a deeper fear that there would be only poverty and ugliness in their life in the city.
Around the park were the great upright surfaces of the skyscrapers with windows glistening in the afternoon sunlight. When they got married they had both intended to go on working, so he thought. Bill had been studying law, but he had decided they would have to wait too long to get married if he went on with it, so he had quit and got a job in an office. That night, not much more than a year ago, when they had decided to marry, he had said, “With the two of us working we’ll get along in fine style,” and they had both started to laugh, feeling strong. Now she would have to stop working. She began to think of the cold expression that had come into the red-rimmed eyes of the old fellow when he looked up at her. He was old and near the end, all the suffering that had been in his life was there to see on the bench: she and Bill were still young, she thought. But they were poor. They would be poor. Suddenly she said, “I don’t want to have a baby.”
“Still afraid, I suppose,” he said irritably.
“Yes, I’m afraid. Why shouldn’t I be? And why should you understand?”
“Please don’t get excited. I’m very, very sorry if I irritated you. I just didn’t want you to go on having unpleasant thoughts because they’re not good for the baby.”
“I tell you I won’t have a baby. We’ll do something. Besides we’re too poor, and it would just mean a lot of misery and maybe more children afterward. We can’t afford it. It would make me so old.”
“But it’s making you look lovelier than ever now.”
“I never, never want to grow old. I’ll not do anything to make me old.”
“Well, I’m going to try not to appear important,” he said mildly, “but you’re being very unreasonable, dear.” Then he stopped and shrugged his shoulders. She saw that his eyes were full of angry resentment, as if she were rejecting him. She was glad to see him feeling like this and wanted to hurt him more. “If you want to talk so haughtily about what we ought to do in this world,” she said, “why don’t you see to it that we have enough money? I’ve never worried you very much, though I’ve had to slave harder than ever since we got married.”
“You knew all about that when you married me,” he said. “Listen to you. You worked a long time before you married me and you didn’t save a nickel, either.”
“I want to go home,” she snapped at him.
“That suits me,” he said.
“We’ll go back then.”
They turned, walked back the way they had come, walking a little more rapidly, as if anxious to get somewhere in a hurry. The sun was not shining so strongly on the path. Looking dogged and resentful, they kept a step away from each other, so their elbows would not touch. Mrs. Fairbanks was taking deep breaths. All the eagerness to quarrel had gone out of her, but she wanted to get home and throw herself on the bed and cry. With his long legs Bill was covering the ground far too quickly for her and she was getting out of breath, but she dared not beg him to go slower. His mouth was set firmly, a pouting, stubborn mouth that looked so much nicer when he smiled.
Soon they were passing the bench where the old man was sitting, and Mrs, Fairbanks, hurrying and looking down at the ground, hoped they would not be noticed. When they had passed and she felt secure, she couldn’t help looking back timidly like a little girl. The man on the bench, who had seemed so sad, was looking after them, and suddenly he smiled at her, smiling gently as if he had noticed in the first place that they had been happy and now were like two lovers who had quarreled. So she smiled at him timidly, and then quite warmly.
As she walked on, still thinking of the man on the bench, she felt more and more peaceful. She put out her hand and took hold of her husband’s arm and he slowed down at once, thinking she was trying to get her breath. She was feeling glad and almost humble, as they walked along slowly, while gradually she accepted all the strange reverence for her that had been in her husband all day. They went walking along slowly and peacefully, and soon she was wondering if people could notice that she felt all soft and glowing.
An Escapade
Snow fell softly and the sidewalks were wet. Mrs. Rose Carey had on her galoshes and enjoyed the snow underfoot. She walked slowly, big flakes falling on her lamb coat and clinging to her hair, the falling snow giving her, in her warm coat, a feeling of self-indulgence. She stood on the corner of Bloor and Yonge, an impressive woman, tall, stout, good looking for forty-two, and waited for the traffic light. Few people were on this corner at half past eight, Sunday evening. A policeman, leaning against a big plate-glass window, idly watched her cross the road and look up to the clock on the fire hall and down the street to the theater lights, where Reverend John Simpson held Sunday service. She had kept herself late, intending to enter the theater unnoticed, and sit in a back seat, ready to leave as soon as the service was over. Bothered by her own shyness, she remembered that her husband had asked if Father Conley was speaking tonight in the cathedral.
Under the theater lights someone said to her: “This way, lady. Step this way, right along now.”
She stopped abruptly, watching the little man with a long nose and green sweater, pacing up and down in front of the entrance, waving his hands. He saw her hesitating and came close to her. He had on a flat black hat, and walked with his toes turned out. “Step lively, lady,” he muttered, wagging his head at her.
She was scared and would have turned away but a man got out of a car at the curb and smiled at her. “Don’t be afraid of Dick,” he said. The man had gray hair and a red face and wore a tie pin in a wide black tie. He was going into the theater.
“Run along, Dick,” he said and, turning to Mrs. Carey, he explained: “He’s absolutely harmless. They call him Crazy Dick.”
“Thank you very much,” Mrs. Carey said.
“I hope he didn’t keep you from going in,” he said, taking off his hat. He had a generous smile.
“I didn’t know him, that was all,” she said, feeling foolish as he opened the door for her.
The minister was moving on st
age and talking quietly. She knew it was the minister because she had seen his picture in the papers and recognized the Prince Albert coat and the four-in-hand tie with the collar open at the throat. She took three steps down the aisle, fearfully aware that many people were looking at her, and sat down, four rows from the back. Only once before had she been in a strange church, when a friend of her husband’s had got married, and it hadn’t seemed like church. She unbuttoned her coat, leaving a green and black scarf lying across her full breasts, and relaxed in the seat, getting her big body comfortable. Someone sat down beside her. The man with the gray hair and red face was sitting beside her. She was annoyed, she knew she was too aware of his closeness. The minister walked the length of the platform, his voice pleasant and soothing. She tried to follow the flow of words but was too restless. She had come in too late, that was the trouble. So she tried concentrating, closing her eyes, but thought of a trivial and amusing argument she had had with her husband. The minister was trying to describe the afterlife and some of his words seemed beautiful, but she had no intention of taking his religious notions seriously.
The seat was uncomfortable, and she stretched a little, crossing her legs at the ankles. The minister had a lovely voice, but so far he’d said nothing sensational, and she felt out of place in the theater and slightly ashamed.
The man on her right was sniffling. Puzzled, she watched him out of the corner of her eye, as he gently dabbed at his eyes with a large white handkerchief. The handkerchief was fresh and the creases firm. One plump hand held four corners, making a pad, and he was watching the minister intently.
She was anxious not to appear ill-bred, but a man, moved by the minister’s words, or an old thought, was sitting beside her, crying. She did not glance at him again till she realized that his elbow was on the arm of her seat, supporting his chin, while he blinked and moved his head. He was feeling so bad she was uncomfortable, but thought that he looked gentlemanly, though feeling miserable. He was probably a nice man, and she was sorry for him.
She expected him to get up and go out. Other people were noticing him. A fat woman, in the seat ahead, craned her neck. Mrs. Carey wanted to slap her. The man put the hand-kerchief over his face and didn’t lift his head. The minister was talking rapidly. Mrs. Carey suddenly felt absolutely alone in the theater. Impulsively she touched the man’s arm, leaning toward him, whispering: “I’m awfully sorry for you, sir.”
She patted his arm a second time, and he looked at her helplessly, and went to speak, but merely shook his head and patted the back of her hand.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated gently.
“Thank you very much.”
“I hope it’s all right now,” she whispered.
He spoke quietly: “Something the minister said, it reminded me of my brother who died last week. My younger brother.”
People in the row ahead were turning angrily. She became embarrassed, and leaned back in her seat, very dignified, and looked directly ahead, aware that the man was now holding her hand. Startled, she twitched, but he didn’t notice. His thoughts seemed so far away. She reflected it could do no harm to let him hold her hand a moment, if it helped him.
She listened to the minister but didn’t understand a word he was saying, and glanced curiously at the gray-haired man, who didn’t look at her but still held her hand. He was handsome, and a feeling she had not had for years was inside her, her hand suddenly so sensitive. She closed her eyes. Then the minister stopped speaking and, knowing the congregation was ready to sing a hymn, she looked at his hand on hers, and at him. He had put away the handkerchief and now was smiling sadly. She avoided his eyes, removing her hand as she stood up to sing the hymn. Her cheeks were warm. She tried to stop thinking altogether. It was necessary to leave at once only she would have to squeeze by his knees to reach the aisle. She buttoned her coat while they were singing, ready to slip past him. She was surprised when he stepped out to the aisle, allowing her to pass, but didn’t look at him. Erect, she walked slowly up the aisle, her eyes on the door. Then she heard steps and knew he was following. An usher held open the door and she smiled awkwardly. The usher smiled.
Outside, she took a few quick steps, then stood still, bewildered, expecting Crazy Dick to be on the street. She thought of the green sweater and funny flat hat. Through the doorway she saw the gray-haired man smiling at the usher and putting on his hat, the tie pin shining in the light. Tucking her chin into her high fur collar she walked rapidly down the street. It was snowing harder, driving along on a wind. When she got to a car stop she looked back and saw him standing on the sidewalk in front of the theater doors. A streetcar was coming. She was sure he took a few steps toward her, but she got on the car. The conductor said, “Fares please,” but hardly glancing at him, she shook wet snow from her coat and sat down, taking three deep breaths, while her cheeks tingled. She felt tired, and her heart was thumping.
She got off the car at Shuter Street. She didn’t want to go straight home, and was determined to visit the Cathedral.
On the side street the snow was thick. Men from the rooming houses were shoveling the sidewalks, the shovels scraping on concrete. She lifted her eyes to the illuminated cross on the cathedral spire. The congregation had come out half an hour ago, and she felt lonely walking in the dark toward the light
Inside the cathedral she knelt down halfway up the center aisle. She closed her eyes to pray, and remembered midnight mass in the cathedral, the Archbishop with his mitre and staff, and the choir of boys’ voices. A vestry door opened, a priest passed in the shadow beside the altar, took a book from a pew, and went out. She closed her eyes again and said many prayers, repeating her favorite ones over and over, but often she thought of her husband at home. She prayed hard so she could go home and not be bothered by anything that had happened in the theater. She prayed for half an hour, feeling better gradually, till she hardly remembered the man in the theatre, and fairly satisfied, she got up and left the cathedral.
Rigmarole
A fter they had come in from the party, Jeff Hilton, the advertising man, looked up and saw his young wife, Mathilde, standing there beaming at him. She seemed to him to be glowing from the memory of many whispered conversations with young men who had been anxious to touch her hand or her arm; she smiled and went on dreaming and her wide dark eyes grew soft with tenderness. She began to hum as she walked over to the window and stood there looking down at the street in the early winter night; and as Jeff went on watching her he kept resenting that she should have had such a good time at a party that he had found so dull. She had left him alone a lot, but he had always remained aware of the admiration she aroused in the young men around her. And now she turned, all warm and glowing, and burst out, “Didn’t you like the party, Jeff?”
“It was a lousy party,” he said vindictively. “I’m fed up with that crowd. No one ever has anything new or bright to say. They’ve all gone a little stale.”
Mathilde tried to stop smiling, but her dark, ardent face still glowed with warmth as she stood there with her hands clasped in front of her. Though Jeff went on talking with a kind of good-humored disgust his earnest face began to show such a desolate loneliness that she suddenly felt guilty; she longed to offer up to him all the tenderness, all the delight it had been so enchanting to have in her since the party. “I had an awfully good time,” she said. “But I kept my eye on you. I know who you were with. Were you watching me, Jeff?” and she rushed over to him and threw herself on his lap and began to kiss him and rub her hand through his hair, laughing all the time like a little girl. “Did you think I was flirting? Did you think I laughed and whispered too much? Don’t you love people to think I’m pretty?”
But Jeff who had had such a dull time felt only that she was trying to console him and make him feel good so he said irritably, “You don’t need to feel you neglected me. Don’t feel guilty. Nobody ever has to worry about me trailing you around. You can feel free.”
“Jeff,” she said very
softly, “I don’t want to feel free. I don’t feel free now.”
“Sure you do. You would be the first to complain if you didn’t.”
“Didn’t you worry a little about me once tonight, Jeff?”
“Listen here, Mathilde,” he said shortly, “jealous men are the greatest bores in the world.”
“Jeff, put your arms around me.”
“What’s the matter with you? You don’t need to mollify me or feel guilty because you had a good time. Surely we’ve got beyond that.”
“I wasn’t trying to mollify you,” she said, looking quite lost, and she began to show in her face much of that curious discontent he had felt growing in her the last three months. She was pouting like a child and she had the shame of one whose innocent gift has been rejected curtly, and then she went away from him awkwardly and curled herself upon the couch, almost crouching, her eyes hardening as she stared at him.
After a while he said, “You’re childish, Mathilde. Why are you sitting there as if you hate me?’ But he began to feel helpless against her silent, unreasonable and secret anger. “These last few months you’ve become about as unreasonable as a sick woman. What on earth is the matter with you?” he said. And he got up and paced up and down and his voice rose as he went on questioning her, but every time he passed the couch where she was crouching he became more disturbed by the passionate restlessness he felt in her.
So he tried to laugh and he said, “This is a lot of non-sense, Mathilde,” and he sat down beside her. In a rough, good-natured way he tried to pull her against him. When she pushed him away he stared at her for a long time till at last he began to desire her, and again he put his arm around her, and again she pushed him away. Then he lost his temper; he threw his arms around her and held her down while he tried to caress her. “Stop it, stop it Jeff,” she cried. “Haven’t you got any sense at all? Doesn’t it mean anything to you that you didn’t want me near you a few minutes ago? What do you think I am?” As she pulled away roughly from him she was really pleading for him to see that she was struggling to hold on to something he had been destroying carelessly month after month. “Doesn’t it mean anything?” she asked.
The Complete Stories of Morley Callaghan: Volume One Page 18