It's Never Over

by Callaghan, Morley; Snider, Norman;

  “Don’t you like him?”

  “He’s all right. He’s cheap, that’s all.”

  “He likes me.”

  “Oh, well.”

  “And he knew Fred.”

  “I know.”

  “The point is I think I fascinate him now. I met him a year or so ago and he seemed almost afraid of me, and now he’s not a bit afraid and at the same time I fascinate him.”

  “What does he hope for?”

  “I don’t know. He knows I’m apt to be an easy mark from now on, and anyway he’s a bit proud of knowing me.”

  “I don’t like him at all. He’s too ridiculous.”

  “Maybe, but I’m glad to have someone like that around now.”

  They heard the front door open. “That’s probably Ed now,” she said, without getting up. “Lillian can talk to him.”

  So they sat silently in the chair, and John, listening intently for every small sound from the house, heard Lillian speaking to Ed and imagined them sitting down together in the front room while she talked sympathetically with him, liking him simply because he was Isabelle’s friend. Leaning forward, he listened but could hear hardly a word; then there were no sounds at all. He heard Lillian laughing faintly and got up quickly.

  “I’m going in the house,” he said.

  “You’re not jealous of Ed, surely.”

  Enraged, he did not answer, merely turning, going into the house. Isabelle followed him. In the room at the front of the house Lillian and Ed Henley were sitting together trying awkwardly to make pleasant conversation. John, hardly shaking hands with Henley, said to Lillian, “I was thinking we might go along now.”

  “Do you remember we were talking about the tournament this afternoon, Mr. Hughes?” Henley said cheerfully.

  “I remember.”

  “I’m working out tomorrow night, would you like to come over?”

  “I don’t care to, thanks,” John said rudely.

  “All right, as long as you’re not being snooty.”

  “He’s not really snooty,” Isabelle said quickly. “Only in some ways he’s a little beyond us. Aren’t you, John?”

  “Don’t be silly, Isabelle. Lillian and I are going. Are you staying here?”

  Isabelle said she wanted Ed to walk over to the church with her so she could say a few prayers.

  On the street with Lillian he said: “I thought if we hurried we might get downtown in time to see a show.”

  “I don’t feel much like a show tonight.”

  “There’s absolutely no reason why we shouldn’t see a show tonight, unless we’re too late.”

  So they walked through the side streets downtown, and before they got to the car tracks they could see the tall white towers of the Sterling building with the lights in angles at the top shining on the ornamental green stone.

  They were too late to get into a vaudeville show. They went to a restaurant, afterward walking slowly, looking into the brightly lighted store windows. They had no unpleasant conversation, and John was happier than he had been all week, because they were only talking about simple thoughts not at all complicated and were glad to be alone together. He liked Lillian’s slim neck and the curling ends of hair under her hat on her neck. Then they talked earnestly about the good times they were going to have in a few years after he had returned from Europe and was being praised by all the critics in all the big cities, taking it for granted he would have enough money to go away, and they would go on thinking about each other and get married as soon as he returned. They were walking now in the quiet streets by the dark warehouses and agreeing he ought to give a recital as soon as possible and invite all the prominent people.

  Chapter Five

  For a week he was satisfied with the way he was letting the days go by. In the morning he lay in bed till noon, lazily letting the sunlight from the windows on the north side of the house fall over him, stretched out on the bed. Then he got up and sat by the window, his nose pressed against the glass, looking down into the street. Three or four kids were playing on the lawns. Watching the kids playing was a simple pleasure, because he knew them by sight and had heard their voices at the same time every morning. Watching lazily at the window he had got to know the relation of the kids: the little bully, the one who lived next door, cried easily; two or three simply followed the others, always a little behind when they ran across the street. Mrs. Errington, plump and round-faced wearing a heather-colored sweater-coat, was raking leaves off the front grass and talking at the same time to the woman next door, who was poking with a stick at a flower rockery in a corner formed by the front step and the width of her veranda. A vegetable man, his wagon across the road heaped with fresh market produce, called across the street to Mrs. Errington and held up three cobs of fresh corn. The street was all a small, simple, orderly world and John Hughes sat for almost an hour at the window, listening alertly, and smiling to himself whenever he was amused. He wanted it always to be the same. Mrs. Errington, looking up at the window, waved to him and he nodded to her.

  The good, simple, joyful feeling remained with him in the bathroom, shaving, and he sang in his strong voice all the vowel sounds in a scale, between each stroke of the razor looking at himself steadily in the mirror, going up the scale, holding the last note a long time. Fully dressed, he went downstairs to the front room, and standing by the piano, touching the keys with only one finger, practiced the scales for an hour longer. No one was in the house; everything was the way he wanted it to be.

  In the late afternoon he played tennis with Lillian on the private court in the north end of the city, a cinder court with a red fence between it and the railway embankment. When a train passed and the smoke drifted over the court it was hard to see the ball. John played energetically till he was all tired out, then sat in the shade on the clubhouse bench earnestly watching Lillian, who was playing lazily with some other girl, noting the shape of her head, and the childishly happy expression on her face when she won a game, noting it carefully as though she were a stranger and he was admiring her for the first time.

  In the evening he took his singing lesson from Hobson, remaining with him and his wife for several hours, listening to the old man’s stories about the days when oratorio singers were celebrated in England and the good times he had had at the Savage Club. He wanted John to go to England in a few years and do oratorio work. Since he had never done much himself in opera, he had no use for teachers of it, and advised al his pupils to study for oratorio. But his wife was always encouraging, and they had tea and small cakes, the three of them talking excitedly, gossiping, and disparaging all other singers in the city and their instructors till it was time for John to leave and walk home.

  But he had avoided Isabelle all week, and when Lillian talked about her he shrugged his shoulders, hardly interested. The night they were at the theater, seeing Janet Cowl in Romeo and Juliet, she said between the first and second act:

  “Isabelle and I were talking about you last night.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Isabelle and I were talking together and she talked about you.”

  “Yeah,” he said, hardly touched by the feeling that so often excited him.

  “She’s upset and excitable, but when we’re together I like her more than I ever liked a woman.”

  “It’s good you are together,” he said.

  And then he shook his head at Lillian, laughing a little foolishly as though he had acted last week like a simple-minded man and now was feeling sure of himself again. By expressing this opinion of his feeling and having Lillian understand, it was easier to keep the notion that he had behaved badly last week, but it was over now; and then expressing the pleasure of his own thoughts from the beauty of the play and the actress, he said: “Let’s go canoeing together on Saturday night out at the bluffs.”

  At the end of the week, early in the evening, they went canoeing out east near the dance hall by The Hundred Steps, a little way along from the bluffs. It was the last
night the dance hall would be open and there would be hardly any canoeing after the weekend because the lake water was cold and the nights were too cool in October. They were both expecting a happier, finer evening together than they had had all week, and John had been very contented and peaceful in the mornings in his room by the window, when all the thoughts he attached to a picture of her in his mind were happy and concerned with her alone, and he had looked forward to having on this evening at the lake with her a high point in a strong common feeling.

  At early twilight they were at The Hundred Steps and the afternoon crowd from the beach was going home. The Steps, beyond the city limits, ran down from the height of land and a street of good houses to the natural beach below. They hired a canoe at the boathouse under the dance hall and John began to paddle toward the bluffs, paddling easily and slowly, hardly glancing ahead, looking directly at Lillian, her body comfortable in the cushions. Occasionally he looked at the blue water still sparkling on the wave-crests in the sunlight. Lillian was so cool and fair and slender and smiling he could hardly go on paddling, and though her eyes were half closed she was sensitive to all his thoughts and her fingers began to move nervously over her throat and two faint red spots were on her cheeks. Lillian’s sensitivity had nothing to do with a feeling of embarrassment between them: it was a feeling that had been getting stronger, and whenever it was in one and they were alone it was quickly in the other. Usually the feeling was first in John, then she began to feel all the force of it inside her and they didn’t know what to do. It was not possible for them to get married, because all the money John had saved was to be for his musical education in another country and she was happier believing it ought to be that way.

  “You are lovely,” he said suddenly.

  “Am I?”

  “You’re lovely and I want to do something about it.”

  “Keep on paddling.”

  “No, I want to let the paddle trail in the water and try to make it clear how lovely you are.”

  “But what is there to do? I’m lovely and that’s settled, and it’s very beautiful here on the water.”

  “Live with me and love me.”

  “It can’t be done, dear one.”

  “Let’s do something right now. I’ll turn in toward the shore.”

  “No, we’ll not do it.”

  “We’ll go up and sit on that little hill over there by the two tall trees.”

  “No, you’re not going to get me over there.”

  “Well, here then.”

  “No, you’ll muss me, and sit still, for heaven’s sake.”

  “We ought to be living together,” he said.

  “We ought to and perhaps I’m foolish, but I wouldn’t feel right about it unless we were married.”

  “You love me enough for it.”

  “Yes. But you’ve been at me so long.”

  He held the paddle loosely, letting it float on the surface of the water. His hand was in the cold water up to his wrist. The water felt very clean and cold on his wrist. The canoe was drifting in toward the bluffs. All the way along from the dance hall the hills had been getting high and steeper till they became tall pinnacled clay crags high over the water’s edge, with just enough beach for a path across the base. No sand was on the narrow beach at the base of the tallest bluffs; just smooth pebbles piled thickly, some of them dry and white. She said suddenly, casually: “We both should be feeling sorry for Isabelle now.”

  “But why now?”

  “It’s lovely here on the water in the twilight.”

  “It’s lovely here on the water, but what of it.”

  “Well, she was in love with you.”

  “I was in love with her.”

  “Now she’s being just a bit too hectic with Ed Henley.”

  “Is he her lover?”

  “I think so. I think he has slept with her.”

  “Good God, what a bedfellow.”

  “But he expected to, don’t you think? And he’s very nice to her. I’m terribly sorry and never think of it as touching her at all. I don’t think she’s well. She’s jaunty now, but she’s in bad health.”

  The careless happiness, drifting on the still water, was almost gone and several times he muttered to himself, looking eagerly at Lillian and soberly dragging the tip of one finger in the water, trying to hold on to the former feeling of the other moment. They were both anxious for the feeling they were losing, and shaking her head stubbornly she said: “Sing very quietly, just a little song, John.” He began to sing softly a song made from a poem of A.E. Housman’s called “Summer Time on Bredon,” singing quietly, though his voice carried far over the water. It was getting dark and they could hardly see other boats near them, but heard voices and laughter coming over the water, and he stopped singing the song which was not making them feel any better and said sharply: “Lillian, listen to me. Do you think I’m still in love with Isabelle?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I tell you definitely I’m not.”

  “We both love her.”

  “Why can’t you see that I don’t? Why do you have to be so calm about it?” He was pounding the side of the canoe with his fist, his head leaning forward, his mouth hanging open.

  “You didn’t have to mention it at all, you know,” she said.

  “Maybe not. Why do they call the bluffs over there ‘The Dutch Cathedral’?”

  “Look at them with your eyes half closed and they look like cathedral spires.”

  He was paddling toward the dance hall, the rows of colored lights shining now on the terrace, and shining on the water. All the way back, hardly speaking, they were in the clear path of the moonlit water, but behind the water was dark and ahead, out beyond the dance hall, it shimmered iridescently. John, a little ashamed of his own sudden anger, was paddling skillfully. Lillian, lying back in the canoe, hardly looked at him, sincerely interested in her own thoughts.

  “What are you thinking of?” he said casually, to help make a friendly conversation.

  “Fred Thompson.”

  “Fred Thompson?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Thoughts of him just came into my head when you asked me about Isabelle. I don’t know if I used to love Fred.”

  “Eh? What’s that?”

  “I hardly had time to love Fred, I suppose.”

  “You didn’t know him hardly. You knew him about a month.”

  “I know. I was very fond of him. Maybe I was in love with him.”

  “That’s nonsense, do you hear, you’ve got that thought in your head now. I don’t know why it should come into your head, do you hear? Fred Thompson is dead. He’s very, very dead.”

  “I just like to think about him.”

  “But he’s dead and you hardly knew him. You’ve got to believe that.” The boat was rocking jerkily as he leaned forward, trying to get on his knees. Wagging the finger of his right hand at her, he fumbled for words, wetting his lower lip rapidly with his tongue. The light was on one side of his face.

  “I tell you something and you become absurd,” she said angrily.

  “Maybe I am. I know it. I can’t help it.”

  “I’m sorry, John.”

  “Dear Lillian.” Still he was speaking huskily and paddling nervously, frowning, trying hard to understand his own feeling. They heard music from the dance hall coming over the water and saw fellows and girls going down the pavilion steps, strolling along the beach to get in the shadows of the trees on the hill.

  “Do you want to dance?” he said.

  “We’ll dance twice and go home.”

  So they beached the canoe and paid, and danced in the small pavilion, but found it hard to make interesting conversation. They left the dance hall and climbed up The Hundred Steps, walking carefully where the railing had fallen away, to the lighted street on the hill. His shoulders were hunched forward as he pulled the joints on his fingers, making the cracking noises.

  “Please
don’t make those noises,” she said.

  “I’m sorry, Lillian. You believe I’m sorry, don’t you?”

  It had been fine and still and peaceful on the water by the cliffs. Far out on the lake there were paths of light on the dark water.

  Chapter Six

  Coming out of Massey Hall late in the evening after hearing Sophie Braslau sing, they were slowly walking the short block to the corner, still holding some of the agreeable feeling they had experienced listening to the contralto. On one side of the street in the short block were old houses with narrow lawns. In the damp ground and mud on the lawn a line of fresh footprints was firmly marked. In the light from the street lamp edges of the footprints were firmly outlined and hardening in the wind.

  “I’ve been thinking of something nearly all evening,” she said.

  “Tell me.”

  “You remember the other evening asking me to love you, live with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve been thinking I could get a small apartment if you’d pay just a little bit a month toward it.”

  “You’ve been thinking that?”

  “That’s what I’m thinking.”

  “You mean we might live together?”

  “No, but we could have the place and you could come when you wanted.”

  “Oh, how absolutely wonderful.”

  His joy was simple and honest and he had hardly any words to express it because of the directness of her acceptance of something that had been beyond his persuasion. He held on to her arm, walking along the street, and when she trembled a little he had his own aching sensation. It was not easy for her to give herself to him because her family had been religiously sober and most of her own emotions were always restrained and expressed conventionally, and even though he did not think of that part of it at all, it was there to increase the intensity of his feeling. At this time she was living with an aunt in the west end of the city, a maiden lady who owned a good deal of property, and who had a big brick house with a wide veranda overlooking High Park. Usually he went into the house in the evening with Lillian and talked to the aunt while she made a cup of tea for them, but tonight they stood on the veranda, holding each other tightly and there seemed to be no strength in her body. It was all soft, as though she had been hanging on to herself a long time and had got suddenly tired. There was a couch on one end of the veranda, and lifting her up suddenly he tried to lie down with her on the couch.