Miss Shipman, feeling more comfortable, slipped down on Joe’s knee.
“What’s the use of looking glum?”
“I think I’ll go home.”
“Be a sport, for gawd’s sake be a sport. If you leave me flat, think of the laugh they’ll have on me.”
“I don’t care.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No, I don’t.”
Sleepily indifferent because of the liquor, he no longer wanted to get rid of her and let his arm rest snugly on her hip, bending his head against her heavy breast. He wanted to sleep. He didn’t want to think or talk, only to sleep and forget Lottie and Ellen and the hymns. Miss Shipman was all right because she didn’t bother him and if she would only keep quiet he would be glad to have her there close to him. He closed his eyes and tried to keep every thought out of his head so his mind would be a blank, but Miss Shipman was getting restless, shifting her weight from his knee, removing her elbow from the arm of the chair. She grunted uneasily and put one foot on the floor.
“I might as well be sitting on a fence,” she said.
Joe didn’t answer. She jumped up and slapped him on the head till he woke up. “Try to go to sleep on me, will ya?” she said. “Getting a girl on your knee and trying to go to sleep.”
He blinked and looked thoughtfully at Miss Shipman. “What time is it?” he said.
“I don’t give a damn what time it is.”
“It don’t matter, I’d like to go to sleep.”
“You got to gimme something, then.”
Joe sat up straight suddenly. “What time is it?” he said. He looked out the window and down the road. No lights in the barn windows. No lights on the road, only the bluish white corner light near the hotel. He wanted to go home and was sure he was quite sober enough to talk to Ellen and Lottie. It was time to look clearly at the matter.
“Where’s Dan and Jerry?” he said.
“Search me,” said Miss Shipman, who was sitting on the table, looking scornfully at him.
Joe stood up and went to go out, but he heard someone coming downstairs. Dan and the dark woman came into the room. Dan had his arm around her waist and they both seemed to be happy and satisfied.
“I’m going home,” Joe said.
“Dang it all, Joe, be a sport,” Dan said.
“I got to get home, that’s all there is to it.”
“What about the girls?”
“I dunno. You look after them.”
“Sit down for a minute, Joe, and the girls’ll go.”
Dan was satisfied and did not care very much. Joe sat and waited and brooded.
7
Ellen lay on the bed, one leg dragging on the floor. The crumpled pillow was pushed back to the middle of the bed. She had been crying but now could only listen to the beating of her heart. Her head was aching, but, listening carefully, she forgot about her head for the moment, though it throbbed when she could not hear her heart beating.
For three days Ellen had not been feeling well, conscious of something taking place inside her. Knowing what it was made her nervously restless but thinking about it made her head ache.
After supper she had gone upstairs to her room to lie down and decide what to do. It would be a long time before Aunt Lottie found out anything was wrong with her. No one would know for months, she was sure. Then she thought of Aunt Lottie and Uncle Joe, and, hating herself, did not care about living. Now, it was necessary to tell Aunt Lottie. At first she had thought of going away to the city but now it had become a duty to tell and she was scared and, feeling small and unimportant, wanted to find out from Aunt Lottie what to do about it. She repeated over and over to herself lying there on the bed, “I got to go ’way,” but knew she would first go downstairs, looking for Aunt Lottie.
Sitting up on the bed, too tired from crying, she looked at her shoes kicked off on the floor, and reached down, picked up one and, putting it on her foot, discovered a loose thread in her silk stocking just above the heel. “If I pull it, it’ll all unravel,” she thought, and put on the shoe without pulling the thread.
She sat on the edge of the bed thinking vaguely of talking about unimportant matters to Doris Kremer, and began to hate Uncle Joe. She lay down again, crushing the pillow fiercely and said: “Damn him, damn him, damn him, damn him,” until she didn’t care about anything.
Ellen tried but could not reach the other shoe from the bed and had to get up finally and get it. She was going downstairs to look for Aunt Lottie and maybe Uncle Joe. If she saw Uncle Joe she’d show him how much she hated him. But she thought he had gone out. Going out of the room she felt scared suddenly of seeing Lottie, but, depressed anyway, didn’t much care what was said to her. At the head of the stairs she felt better and went back to the room to tidy her hair and straighten her dress. Looking in the glass she remembered she was supposed to go to service tonight, and it suddenly became important that she should tell Aunt Lottie before going over to the barn. She didn’t want to go in the barn again. That was all over, all gone. She had tried to think about praying but her thoughts had got twisted with things far away. She was no good, that was the trouble.
On the way downstairs, she heard Aunt Lottie at the front of the house talking to someone. Ellen didn’t go through to the kitchen, but waited in the hall until Aunt Lottie would come in. Ellen knew Lottie was talking to Lou Henry, who was passing down the road, friendly because Lou was going away. Lou sounded glad to be friendly and Lottie was politely interested. There was a long pause. Ellen, listening in the hall, knew neither one had much to say and Lottie would come around to the back door. Lou said good evening and Lottie came along the picket walk and into the kitchen, walking over to the mirror. Ellen could not see her but knew just where she was walking in the kitchen.
“Ellen, Ellen, you’ll be late, if you’re coming,” Lottie called. Ellen walked into the kitchen.
“Hurry, Ellen,” Lottie said impatiently. “You’re not nearly ready.”
Ellen walked across the kitchen to a chair at the end of the table.
“I don’t think I’ll be going,” she said bluntly and sat down.
Lottie stopped putting on her hat before the mirror and said quickly, “Why don’t you want to go, Ellen?”
“I just don’t want to.”
“Aren’t you feeling well?”
“I guess I’m all right.”
“Don’t be so silly, if you’re not all right say so and no one will expect you to go.”
“I don’t know, I just don’t know,” Ellen said absently.
“Then you’d better go,” Lottie said with peevish disappointment, turning huffily to the mirror. Ellen did not move. Lottie looked at her again and saw she was pale and worried. Lottie, adjusting her hat, went over to the table to put her arm sympathetically around Ellen’s shoulder; she oughtn’t to be cross to a sick girl, she said. Ellen pushed the arm from her shoulder and looked at Aunt Lottie stupidly. Lottie was indignant.
“You don’t need to be bold,” she said crossly.
“I’m not bold, Aunt Lottie.”
“Well, I call that bold, but suit yourself. I’m going to church,” and she went out of the kitchen.
Ellen said quickly: “Please don’t go to church, Aunt Lottie.”
“What’s got into you?” Lottie said, standing in the hall. She took her coat from the hall rack. “Of course I’m going to church and I’m surprised you don’t seem anxious. If you’re not feeling good, it’s not wrong to miss.”
Ellen kept on looking uneasily at Aunt Lottie and would have spoken but her lips were trembling. Aunt Lottie opened the front door. She heard Ellen crying and hurried back along the hall.
“What’s the matter, Ellen?” she said, looking hard at her.
“I dunno, things are wrong,” Ellen muttered almost to herself.
Lottie pulled a chair back from the table and sat down slowly, looking earnestly at Ellen. She wanted to be motherly but did not know how to approach Ellen.
&
nbsp; “There’s no use crying,” Ellen said.
“Sometimes it helps,” Lottie said.
“It don’t help me.”
“Well, it may.”
“Well, it can’t.”
Lottie took off her hat and put it on the table. “I won’t go to church,” she said deliberately. “I’ll stay home with you.”
“I want to tell you, but I don’t know how to tell you,” said Ellen.
Lottie looked at her suspiciously and said sharply: “What have you been doing? Tell me now, do you hear, or I’ll find out.”
She took hold of Ellen’s wrist, jerking her sharply forward and Ellen straightened up. Ellen was scared and wanted to go upstairs but Aunt Lottie held on tightly to her wrist, her lips hesitating to voice the thought that was making her sit stiffly in the chair. Looking directly into Lottie’s eyes, Ellen wavered once and thought of lying, but then her whole body felt limp; she didn’t care, and, looking away from Aunt Lottie, she told in a hesitating, stumbling fashion of the night down by the river. Lottie, listening with contemptuous bitterness, pressed her lips into a firm line and, when Ellen had finished, said in a hard, precise voice: “Now who was it?”
Ellen looked at her vaguely and said, “Uncle Joe.”
Lottie’s body was rigid, she was motionless and mute, then her hand slowly caressed her throat.
“Uncle Joe,” she repeated.
“Yes.”
“Joe?”
“Yes, Uncle Joe. Oh, Aunt Lottie, you’re hurting my wrist!”
Lottie, dropping her hand suddenly to the table, whined, “Lord, Lord, Lord, Lord, oh my Lord,” but she held hard to Ellen’s wrist, her other hand flailing the table helplessly. Ellen was crying and watching Lottie.
It was getting dark. A light in Henry’s place could be seen through the kitchen window. Ellen could not see into the corners of the kitchen but they sat there at the table. Ellen no longer cared how hard Aunt Lottie squeezed her wrist. Lottie’s moaning frightened her and it was getting dark. No use moving. No use trying to do anything but sit there and watch the shifting line of Lottie’s back. Ellen wished it would not get dark so quickly.
Lottie’s head shot up suddenly and she screamed, “You reptile,” and pounded Ellen’s knuckles on the table, muttering over and over drearily, “My Joe, my Joe.” And then she was still. Ellen slumped in her chair and cried quietly.
Ellen couldn’t see Aunt Lottie very well in the dark but knew she was sitting up straight.
“It’s no use,” Lottie said softly.
They could hear the singing in the barn across the road. Lottie started to cry again and Ellen knew she was thinking of Hodgins and the baptism in the lake, but all that no longer mattered to Ellen. She was sorry for Aunt Lottie but nothing was important now.
“What will people say?” Lottie whispered.
“Oh, I don’t know why it had to happen. It just happened. I don’t know why. It just happened, that’s all, Aunt Lottie.”
“I guess we should light the light,” Lottie said.
“I don’t want the light lit.”
They sat close to each other in the dark and Ellen heard Lottie’s heavy breathing.
“We’ve got to do something,” Lottie said harshly.
“I know something’s got to be done.”
“I won’t live here,” Lottie said quietly.
“I don’t want to live here, I don’t want to live at all.”
“You do want to live. That’s why you did it. You’re no good,” Lottie said bitterly.
“I’ll go away. I’m going into the city,” Ellen said.
“You little fool, what are you going to do in the city?”
“I don’t know,” Ellen said. She was becoming afraid of Aunt Lottie, who stood up and seemed to tower over her. Ellen could hardly see her take the few steps toward the door. “Where are you going, Aunt Lottie?” Ellen said, frightened.
“I don’t know, I don’t care,” she said wearily.
“I’ll do anything you say, Aunt Lottie.”
Ellen knew Lottie was turning around at the door, a black object in the shadow. Lottie came back slowly, her legs striking against the chair, and sat down again. She was getting excited. She sat down but stood up nervously. Ellen began to fidget in the dark.
“Light the light, Aunt Lottie.”
“I don’t ever want to see Joe again,” Lottie said lifelessly.
“I hate Uncle Joe now, but it’s no use.”
“We’ll be driven out of the village. We’ll be driven out of the village, but not me, I’ll see to that,” she said excitedly.
“Oh, I wish I was dead, Aunt Lottie.”
Lottie gripped the edge of the table, shaking it. “I wish you were dead. I wish you weren’t born. We might as well all be dead.”
“Aunt Lottie, I’d die if I could. You know that, Aunt Lottie.”
“Let’s not stay here, Ellen. Let’s go out of here.”
Ellen was glad to be able to do something, would have done anything Lottie suggested. She got up and put her hand on Lottie’s arm and said: “I don’t care where we go but I don’t want to stay here.”
“I wonder if I’d better light the light,” Lottie muttered. She was accustomed to lighting the light before this time.
“Not now, Aunt Lottie. I don’t want to look around.”
“I’m going to light the light,” Lottie said deliberately.
She went over to the shelf near the pantry and Ellen heard a fumbling in the matchbox, the match was scratched and the yellow light flared close to Lottie’s face. The light flickered and went out, but Lottie had taken the globe off the lamp and another match lit the wick. She put on the globe and carried the lamp over to the table.
“It isn’t your fault, Ellen,” she said simply.
“Oh, it’s all the same,” Ellen said.
“There’s not much use living, everything’s gone now.”
“I want to get out. I want to do anything, I don’t mind dying,” Ellen said eagerly.
Lottie stood by the table, miserably grim. “We’ll go out together and we’ll not come back,” she said.
“Let’s go now. Come on now,” Ellen said.
Lottie stood by the table, her head swaying slightly, her eyes closed. “I’m going to leave a note for Joe,” she said finally.
Ellen watched her fumble with the knob of the table drawer and pull it out, looking for a pencil. Then Lottie walked across the kitchen to get a piece of paper from the newspaper rack under the mirror. She sat down at the table and wrote a few lines. “I’m leaving this note,” she explained, and read it very practically: “Dear Joe, we won’t be back. There is no use looking for us.” She put the pencil back in the drawer and leaned the paper against the lamp-handle.
Ellen thought Aunt Lottie seemed to have become almost a stranger to her, too deliberate, too firm of purpose.
“Come on, Ellen, we don’t want to stay here.”
“I’ll go wherever you say. I don’t want to come back. I’ll get my hat.”
Ellen went down the hall to the rack, but Lottie said, “We don’t need any hats.”
“I guess we don’t,” Ellen said.
8
Lottie and Ellen walked down the path under the haw tree to the road. The road was dark in the shadows from the houses and hills, but the moon was shining clearly in the sky. A good land breeze was blowing to the lake.
“It’s almost like daylight out,” Ellen said.
“Don’t talk. Please don’t talk, Ellen.”
Ellen looked sideways at Aunt Lottie, who was staring straight down the road, to where the barn was, lights on in the windows. Ellen hoped they would not hear singing because she knew instinctively Lottie was thinking of the barn.
They passed by the big, old, dilapidated barn with the yellow light in the small window and Lottie did not look at it. There was no sound of singing. “They must be praying,” Ellen thought. Lottie was walking with her coat flowing open, the breeze cur
ving it in a wide arc behind her, the short strands of hair usually hanging over her forehead tossed back by the breeze. Ellen, taking shorter steps than Lottie, stared straight ahead.
“Which way’ll we go, Aunt Lottie?”
“What’d you say?”
“Where’ll we go?”
“We’ll just keep on.”
“All right, I don’t care.”
“We don’t want to live, we don’t care, we’ll go down by the river.”
“I want to, Aunt Lottie, but I’m scared.”
“Walk beside me, Ellen.”
They came to the small cement bridge over the river and Lottie stopped, leaning over the rail, looking down the river to the massive high-level bridge and its huge shadow over the valley.
“We’ll go down there,” she said.
Lottie looked hard at Ellen and her eyes burned brightly, but her lips remained in the firm line of her mouth.
She walked over to the corner of the bridge to go down the path to the river, walking straight down without leaning back, her weight carrying her forward much quicker than she had expected, her open coat ballooning behind her like a sail in the wind. At the bottom of the short path she stood buttoning her coat. “I should have buttoned this coat before,” she said vaguely. Ellen came down the path and stood beside her. Linking arms they walked down the path by the river. Lottie never looked back. Ellen turned once, looking over at the hotel and the lights in the window.
Ellen, looking behind, knew Uncle Joe was in the hotel. Lottie and she walking down by the river and Joe over there drinking, and maybe having a good time, and, no longer feeling lifeless, she began to walk slowly, wanting to go back to the hotel after Uncle Joe. She felt suddenly like killing her uncle and wondered why Lottie didn’t want to do anything to him. Walking slowly, she stopped. They were on the path, a few feet from the river, wide and shallow at this spot. The breeze had become stronger. It was getting windy.
“What’s the matter?” Lottie said quickly.
“I’d like to go back.”
Lottie, hesitating, sat down on the ground and put her head on her knees. One of her knees sank down, the leg stretched out and her foot slipped into the water. Ellen stood beside her, hardly looking at her. “Your foot’s in the water,” she said.
The Complete Stories of Morley Callaghan: Volume One Page 23