It's Never Over

by Callaghan, Morley; Snider, Norman;

  The first night there he lay awake, sure he was going to be poor and thinking with disgust of all kinds of poverty. Though he had saved almost fifteen hundred dollars, he had the feeling if he spent any of it he would never go away to have his voice trained. Since losing the job at the church he had made up his mind never to bother any more with church work, and yet did not want to sing the songs that he would have to sing in the popular theaters.

  Lillian came in the afternoon to see his room, and sitting in two old-fashioned chairs, after they had opened the windows wide to let the cold air into the room, they decided they could not go on with his recital, now they could no longer count on the enthusiasm of Mr. Stanton and Doctor Ellwood, or any church people. Lillian was sorry, though hardly talking about it, looking out the window across the road.

  “What are you going to do?” she said.

  “Get a job.”

  “Whereabouts?”

  “I don’t know. I want to get some more money.”

  “Maybe that’s better.”

  She was politely interested, sympathizing with his ambition, though it was hardly a part of her own plan. Lazily she was looking out the window. No one was on the street. Someone was hammering, steel on steel, in the garage down the lane. There was nothing outside to interest her. She was not trying to suggest, by her lack of strong feeling, that she had lost some of her love for him; only there was hardly any emotional intensity behind her words. Unexpectedly she said, glancing at him and smiling: “You needn’t worry about Isabelle bothering you anymore.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s in bed very sick.”

  “What’s the matter with her?”

  “A very bad cold and probably the flu, too. I was there last night.”

  “Well, listen, don’t even talk about me to her, will you?”

  A little amused by his sincerity, and to humor him she said: “Of course I won’t if you don’t want me to.” Puzzled now, she said quietly: “It was almost a disease with you.”

  He merely shrugged his shoulders, refusing to talk.

  At night, in bed it was lonely, the familiar sounds in the Errington house were not there, the noises outside on the street were strange, and cars going into the garage kept him awake. The noises kept him wide awake and he wanted to go to sleep instead of lying, talking to himself about Isabelle.

  In the morning he went downtown to the employment office of the big store where he had worked before, and after sitting there two hours they said they weren’t hiring anybody; they had taken on many clerks for the Christmas business and it would be a slack time afterward.

  At one of the radio stations they promised him some work after Christmas.

  So he was settling down after an intense emotional experience, satisfied to remember he loved Lillian, and would go away and come back for her. Every plan he made provided for a return to the city to marry Lillian. In the daytime he saved money eating at armchair lunches so they could have cheap seats in the theaters.

  Planning his future so steadily, he forgot all about Hobson, his music master, and thinking of him, it seemed foolish to go on paying for a training leading mainly into church work. Early in the evening he went to Hobson’s house and told him he wouldn’t take any more lessons because he wanted to go away and didn’t believe such lessons would help him. They started to argue and John was glad Mrs. Hobson wasn’t there to offer him sandwiches and tea. Hobson, who was friendly with all the critics, and successful training church singers, wanted John to give the recital because a performance by one of his pupils usually turned out all right. Unable to understand why John had left the choir at St. Mark’s, he insisted he go on and give the recital, calling him many names rapidly. Hobson was a fat man, whose face got red and blue when angry, and he breathed slowly afterward, as though recovering from a fit. It was not a good time for John to tell him he had had enough oratorio singing, and wanted to study opera in another country.

  When John spoke so frankly, Hobson began to breathe slowly, his face gradually assuming a natural color, and he said with dignity: “I can do no more for you. Please go.”

  “What would you advise me to do?”

  “Do as you think best and ruin your voice.”

  Out on the street again, looking back at the red-brick house and the light in the front window, John had a feeling of exultation. So many thoughts came into his head rapidly he had no one definite impression, just the fine feeling that he was stripping himself of every tie holding him to the one spot. Walking along, his breath was steaming. It was the time of the first heavy fall of snow and it had got colder, remaining cold all week, and the snow kept on falling. The garage man in the lane was doing little business because automobiles would not turn along the lane: it was too hard getting out again. The wheels of the cars spun ineffectually, the snow spraying against the board fence. The snow spat ered into the garage, falling on the shoulders of the garage man, standing there, hatless, an unlighted cigar in his mouth. John stood under the light, his hands over his ears, watching the man in the automobile get out and look contemptuously at the garage man, who shrugged his shoulders, implying that it was a long lane and he could not be expected to be cleaning it all day while snow was falling. Two older men passed wearing earlugs underneath their hats and two little kids, sliding on the street, laughed at them. A long time ago everybody in the city used to wear earlugs in the cold weather, but now they believed the winters got milder every year, and went around the street, their ears red and swollen, their breath steaming.

  John, standing by the light, saw Mr. Gibbons, who roomed in the same house, coming down the street. Mrs. Stanley had hinted that Gibbons, the communist, ought to be avoided, but he had a pleasant smile and was anxious to be friendly. They walked up the street together, beginning a silly argument. John had suggested everybody ought to be wearing colored toques, which would not only be warmer and comfortable, but would be more colorful on the streets. Gibbons, with humor, insisted the idea had no utility, and no one would be any better off, leaving an impression that John had been silly, because it was a cold night and necessary to make a conversation walking up the street.

  John asked Gibbons to sit in his room the rest of the evening. They might first of all go out and get a bottle of wine, he suggested, but Gibbons explained he never drank. John asked if he had taken a vow in chastity as well as abstinence in the holy order of communism. They both laughed politely.

  “I’ve nothing against girls,” Gibbons said, “only they don’t appeal to me at all.”

  “Don’t you ever go out with them?”

  “No. They just don’t appeal to me. Once when we were having a convention out West the fellows put a woman in my room, but I didn’t get sore. They thought it was a fine joke.”

  “Don’t you ever want them at all?”

  “I never even think about them.”

  “What do you do then?”

  “I mean I like women well enough, only I never have to think of them in that way.”

  “Supposing you had a lovely woman here now?”

  “It would be all right for you, but it wouldn’t mean anything to me. It’s silly the way men are always giving themselves to women, don’t you think so?”

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  “Oh, I know I am. I figured it out a long time ago and it’s easy for me now because I haven’t any feeling for them.”

  Gibbons began to talk about the communist movement in the city. They hadn’t had a chance, he said, since the trouble following the war. The time would come. There was absolutely no doubt about that. It was his opinion, though some in the party did not agree with him, they ought to take advantage of every gathering caused by a minor disturbance. Talking slowly, he was determined to express all his thoughts clearly, frowning heavily. “For example,” he said, “do you remember the big crowd that gathered around the jail the night before they hanged that fellow Thompson? We ought to have been able to do something about it. The crowd was sore at th
e police and ready for trouble. It might have been used in some way, because it moves everybody.”

  “Go on, what do you mean?”

  “A hanging draws everybody into it. We’re all held. It takes hold of some stronger than others. Some are sentimental and some are hard, but they’re all crucified in their own way. Didn’t it get you?”

  “I couldn’t get away from it.”

  “That’s it. Of course Thompson was of no importance, but we ought to have been able to take advantage of the disturbance.”

  “You think he was of no importance?” John said angrily.

  “Generally speaking, I mean. Did you know him?”

  “I did.”

  “Well, I knew him when we were in the army. You could not do anything with him. That was before he was an officer. He was apt to be enthusiastic, but more often cynical. I was sorry for him, but he couldn’t really affect anybody.”

  “I had a good opinion of him.”

  “Yeah, I think we ought to have been able to do something about it. It’s not important whether he was Fred Thompson or Jack Spratt . . . .”

  “I say it is of the utmost importance. Do you hear?”

  “My God man, we shouldn’t quarrel about something like that. You resent it, eh? Let me tell you, then, he was indifferent to any cause. He would have laughed or sneered at any movement, and was the worst enemy of any kind of political progress.”

  “Shut up do you hear?” John said, leaning toward him, holding on tightly to the edge of the table. “Shut up, do you hear?” Gibbons, puzzled, shook his head awkwardly. “If you’re a relative of his, I’m sorry,” he said. “I was just speaking of men generally, and meant I couldn’t conceive of his life or death having any lasting effect . . . .”

  “Oh, stop talking. For God’s sake, shut up . . . . You won’t eh?” He reached over suddenly and slapped Gibbons across the face, then stared at him stupidly, surprised at what he had done. Gibbons stood up, drawing in his breath with a whistling noise between his teeth, too astonished to control further the muscles of his body. Before he could move at all John said, “Oh, Lord, I’m awfully sorry. I’m so sorry. You must forgive me. I was hardly listening to what you were saying. The words, I mean. Talking about him and thinking about the whole thing excited me and I wanted to stop talking. I hardly know what you were saying about him. Forgive me.” He held out his hand smiling.

  “Well, if it was that way.”

  “It was. I assure you.”

  “All right, then.” They shook hands smiling, embarrassed, and started to make a new conversation. Gibbons talked to John about Trotsky, one of the few great men in the world, he said, who would eventually return to Russia when the Red Army needed a leader. There was no argument, and talking lazily, they felt sleepy.

  John was undressed, ready to turn out the light, when Gibbons, in his dressing gown, came into the room again. He was worried and anxious to make an explanation.

  “You remember we were talking about girls?” he said.

  “Yes. That’s all right.”

  “No, I was thinking about it over there in my room. I don’t want you to get me wrong.”

  “No, it’s all right.”

  “But there’s nothing wrong with me. I don’t want any stories getting around. I just don’t like women,” he said and smiled apologetically, closing the door quietly.

  Chapter Twelve

  In the holiday week at Christmas, Lillian went to her parents’ home in the country. John was alone. In the city at Christmas time a young fellow in a rooming house without a plan for the holiday is really alone.

  Gibbons, in the same house, was alone, too, but it did not bother him. The holiday enthusiasm was an illusion he said to John. By refusing to spend money on Christmas presents he did not contribute to the economic prosperity of dealers who fostered the illusion. It sounded so entirely reasonable, John felt good-humored.

  On Christmas Day, deciding to have a fine elaborate meal in the most expensive hotel in the city, he hesitated for a long time, thinking of the price and the extravagance, and assuring himself he was becoming a miser. Finally, in the evening, he walked down to the hotel. The lobby was crowded, everybody prosperous, many fat men stood there in fur coats and derby hats, smoking cigars.

  In the dining room, before he had ordered, sitting alone at the white table, he did not get the warm tingling feeling of satisfaction he had expected. It was all a lit le sil y, because he was not very hungry. The lights were bright, the trays passing all had fine rich-smelling food on them, but he was hardly hungry. Looking around the room he saw a priest, well dressed and careful y shaved, sitting a few tables away from him, his head bent down, a little bald on the top. The priest was eating slowly, enjoying a fine meal, all by himself in the crowded hotel dining room. John, recognizing Father Mason, got up quickly and went over to shake hands with him. The priest, glad to talk with someone, invited John to sit down at his table. “My housekeeper wanted to go home,” he said, “and I let her. I’m a little tired of her cooking anyway. I have the same dishes too often. She was sorry for me, thinking I’d be all alone, and all the time I was thinking I’d come here for the dinner. She’s a dear soul, though.” His breath smelt of liquor and he was feeling very jolly. He was thinner and his clothes hung on him loosely. His face was red, almost feverish. Since he had had something to drink, it was hard to know whether he was in good health. All the time now he had a fever, he said, and was thinking of going to Europe for a few months because he had lost twenty pounds. Often he had to change his clothes four times a day, from the fever and the sweating. That was all that was wrong with him and he expected to live to be eighty. He asked John about his singing and learned he had lost his job at St. Mark’s Church. “You’re better off anyway. Why did you want to sing there?” he said. A bigoted remark occurred to him, but he was too good-natured to express it. “Oh, well, this is good food here,” he said.

  So they had a splendid dinner, enjoying the rich food and encouraging each other to talk. When they were finished Father Mason said: “Are you doing anything tonight?”

  “Nothing at all. I was thinking of a show.”

  “Oh forget that. We ought to have a little drink together in a place where it’s quiet.”

  “The lady at my rooming house will sell us a bottle of Scotch at any time. She never put it to me that way, but said if I was ever in need of it she’d help me out.”

  They walked up Yonge Street together, their feel crunching on packed-down snow not yet shoveled from the sidewalk. Tall flat surfaces of office buildings were clean and untouched by snow. It was a holiday night, but lights were in the rectangular windows high up in the buildings.

  In his room, John, smelling the gas, had to open the windows, though Father Mason said he could not smell it at all. That was the trouble, at first you could not smell it, and then, once the odor was detected, you seemed to smell it all the time. Father Mason sat down away from the window, out of the draft, for fear of getting a cold, it was so easy for him to sweat, and John went downstairs to get a bottle of whiskey.

  They had several drinks, John waiting for Father Mason to get more hilarious, but the priest sat there, hardly talking till he said suddenly: “I don’t care when I die. I’m ready to die at any time. It will be easy for me and I don’t expect it to bother me at all, just let me go to confession and get everything cleared up. I don’t care when I die.”

  “Are you feeling the draft from the window?”

  “No, when I get hot. I don’t feel the cold at all.”

  “I’ll close it anyway.”

  “All right. Have you seen Isabelle Thompson recently?” the priest said.

  “She’s been sick, I think. I saw her a while ago, but she’s been sick.”

  “I know she’s sick. I think she thought she was going to die.” Father Mason was talking slowly, soberly, hardly looking at John, his eyes turned to the other side of the room. His forehead was sweating, for he had been drinking a great d
eal during the day and was finding it difficult to avoid talking too rapidly about thoughts now bothering him. He wanted to make everything sound reasonable and detached, but his feeling was getting too strong.

  “Women are funny that way. They are like vats of wine. Tap them and they get started and flow on till they’re finished,” he said.

  “That’s not bad, either.”

  “No. I’d be that way myself if I ever got started, but – nonsense. I never think of them at all now. Do you?”

  “All the time.”

  “It was bad enough the way Fred died,” Father Mason said.“It was awful.”

  “It was harder on me than I ever let anyone know, walking with him to the rope. I knew him well, that was the trouble. You believe, don’t you, that I don’t care at all when I die?”“Yes, only I don’t feel that way.”

  “I’ve been trying for a long time to forget Fred. I don’t ever want to walk to the scaffold with anybody, though I’ll probably have to do it, because they’ll have a hard time getting anyone else. The main thing is, I’ve been trying not to think. The drink helps a bit there.” He poured himself another drink and took it easily, hardly feeling it at all in his throat. “I like the taste of whiskey,” he said, “but I drink too much of it.”