It's Never Over

by Callaghan, Morley; Snider, Norman;

  “You weren’t at all in love with him, I tell you.”

  “You’re an idiot,” she said, running ahead of him up the stairs to the apartment.

  The people in the big room were drinking, talking, and playing a record on a gramophone. John, following Lillian, tried several times to speak to her, but she would not listen, talking always to somebody else. A young man, fat and red- headed, the owner of the apartment, was playing a guitar, stuttering and blushing whenever he started to talk seriously. He had given the guests cushions to sit on and was a little embarrassed, feeling that his party was obviously successful, and proud of its informality. They had to listen to him play the guitar, always standing in the same place in the room, several paces away from the mirror over the mantel and staring, while he played, at his own image in the mirror.

  Then Lillian, who was not enjoying herself, trying to avoid John, said she wanted to go home.

  In the taxi, John tried to be friendly, and was eager to kiss and pet her. Sitting in a corner, she pushed him away. He said very rapidly:

  “Lillian, Lillian, you seem so lonely, Lillian, and I’m far lonelier, sitting here beside you, than I’ve been when you were miles away. The lines on your face are set and hard. I see it when we pass the streetlights. Smile a little, or even cry, sweetheart. How much better if we were both crying our eyes out, for we’re far the unluckiest pair of lovers in the whole wide world. If we could cry together we’d have the one simple sentiment, and it would be so sweet to share any kind of a sharp pain or a sorrow. Just say a few agreeable words softly and easily. Say anything at all, then. I know how you feel about Isabelle, but how often has she cal ed me a prig just when I’m eager for a new simple happiness with you? Lord, if only I could never hear her name again, or never see her image in my thoughts. I’ll believe, as you think, that she’s perfect, generous, forlorn, and yet lovely, but if only we could walk in different worlds wide apart . . . Look, Lillian, look out the window and see how light it’s get ing over the housetops in the east; look down the street when the car turns a corner, and still I can see one faint star and the streetlamps are still lit!”

  “Please stop talking.”

  “But if you’d only listen without having any complicated feelings.”

  “I said before I thought you were jealous of Fred. He’s dead, but in a way he seems to grow stronger, and though he was your friend you hate to think of him. Leave me alone. Please stop moving beside me. Sit still. All the words come easily to you and inside you’re in a frenzy. I’m tired. I want to go to bed.”

  At her apartment house he opened the vestibule door, standing to one side to let her enter.

  “Good night,” she said.

  “Am I not coming up?”

  “No, good night.”

  “But I want to come up. I looked forward to it all evening.”

  “I don’t want to have to think of you at all, you bother me. I’m going to bed. I don’t want to see you at all. You worry me.”

  Closing the door quickly she ran up the stairs. He did not follow her, simply stood there till her shoes disappeared around the turn on the stairs. Then he walked back to the corner, looking for a taxicab. It was not yet dawn. It would not be dawn for nearly an hour, but the snow was hardly falling, and no stars were out.

  Chapter Fourteen

  He did not see Lillian all week. When he telephoned her she was polite, though not willing to see him for a few days until sure of herself. Considerately, she explained she was not trying to avoid him.

  At one time his small contribution had been necessary for the maintenance of the apartment, but for three weeks she had been independent of him, earning money of her own from pupils studying the piano.

  Now, when she would not see him, he wished he was still giving her money, though he had become niggardly, but they might at least have been held together by the common payments. And then he felt more confident, really believing it would be necessary for her to go on thinking of him, his image becoming so strong in her thoughts she would be tormented until she actually saw him. It had always been that way with him, when she had gone away for a week. He had been so eager to see her he had hoped she would never go away again. This feeling was always so steady and strong in him, he was certain she, too, would feel the force of it, and in a few days would anxiously wait for him to come to her. At first, for days, she would hold aloof, and then begin to think of it as a period of waiting for him. And so confident was he now he began to concern himself mainly with the unimportant details of his life in the rooming house. Mrs. Stanley had not given him a new steel bed yet, but had changed the bedclothes, and made the bed for him in the morning and tidied his room, though he was supposed to do it himself. The room looked so clean after she tidied it in the morning he was too embarrassed to mention the bed to her again. Mrs. Stanley, cheerfully polite, said he ought to understand she was looking for a bargain and expected to have a good new bed in a few days.

  Early in the evening he was lonesome in spite of his confidence and self-assurance, and got into the habit of walking north along the streets near Lillian’s place, never actually admitting he might possibly see her on the street and have a casual conversation. The second evening he walked north he went closer to the apartment, walking more slowly, for the night was fine, hardly cold, the first days of the January thaw, with plenty of sunlight and snow melting from the roofs of houses and bare spots showing in the lawns and all over the parks. The third time he went even closer to the apartment house, in the late afternoon, and after passing it stood in the doorway of the tobacco shop on the corner, looking back along the street at the house. It was nearly five o’clock in the afternoon, but like the beginning of winter twilight and lights were in the windows of the new apartment house, facing the vacant lots. On the street the lights were not lit.

  Standing there smoking a cigarette, mechanically watching a streetcar stop and people getting out and walk along the street toward the apartment-house, he was still hoping to see Lillian, yet nervously aware he would not be able to conceal that he had come there purposely to see her. Three men and a woman who had got off the car where walking briskly along the street, and he followed them with his eyes til suddenly he recognized the woman. Isabelle Thompson had got off the car and was walking along the street to the apartment house.

  On impulse he followed her down the street, almost catching up with her, then hesitating, he turned, walking back to the corner slowly, feeling alert and cunning and hoping she had not seen him. Isabelle, who had been sick, was now going to see Lillian, and he thought he might stand on the corner and make a plan that would surprise both of them and have him appear suddenly important, impressive. He was annoyed, leaning against the tobacconist’s window unable to think of anything that would help him. He had hurried back to the store entrance, turning, facing the street again, ready to start thinking energetically, and then he couldn’t organize his thoughts. Excitedly he kept beating his toes on the sidewalk, ready to run down the street and follow Isabelle into the apartment house, yet assuring himself he was cool and in control. Lights were in the tobacconist’s windows, and he looked at the cigars and tins of pipe tobacco.

  Still angry, he stood there, no longer trying to think, only he wouldn’t walk away from the street corner. Twenty minutes later Lillian and Isabelle, coming out of the apartment, walked toward the corner. Lillian had on a new caracul coat, the skin clipped tight. Isabelle was wearing her heavy dark blue cloth coat. The two girls were walking slowly, arm in arm, Isabelle, a little taller, walking near the curb. John, seeing them coming toward him, was alert and cunning again, all his thoughts clear, so instead of walking down the street to meet them, he hid far back in the store entrance, ready to follow, and possibly meet them casually. It was the beginning of the plan he had started to make in the first place.

  They turned at the corner and he followed on the other side, hoping they were going into a store, or even to a restaurant to have afternoon tea. They were not g
oing out for the evening; it was too early and they did not wait for a street-car; besides, Lillian knew hardly anyone in the neighborhood.

  It was a mild winter evening for a walk, the slush thick by the curb, and autos passing sometimes sprayed the slush over the sidewalk and people shouted angrily at the drivers.

  The two girls were merely going for a walk in the late afternoon. Three blocks south they stopped, talked together and turned along the side street running down to the ravine. All these side streets, like the one where Lillian lived, led down to the ravine, but this one led to the cemetery. John, noticing they were walking down to the cemetery where they had buried Fred Thompson, got so excited the careful thoughts went out of his head and he started to walk fast, trying to catch up with them. He had let them get too far ahead, and it was suddenly very important to him that Lillian should not go walking into the cemetery with Isabelle. Hurrying, he whistled, but they did not hear him nor turn around. By running he might have caught them, before passing through the gate, but other people walking along the street were watching him and he was confused.

  The wide gate between the two stone pil ars was stil open. Three women in black were coming out of the cemetery. The girls in the brown caracul and blue-cloth coats passed through the gate, turning to the left, out of sight.

  Then he started to run, though now they had passed through the gate he did not want to catch up or speak to them; he was eager to follow, curious to know what they intended to do.

  Standing by the brown hedge curving along the cinder path leading down the slope, he was out of sight of the girls, yet he could follow them with his eyes. They were walking down to the edge of the cleared land by the row of trees, to the Thompson plot among the new graves on the hill. The snow on the cinder path was slushy and their small shoes had sunk far down. The footprints were there by the hedge. Small streams of water were running by the side of the cinder path, trickling steadily, rivulets running all the way down the path, over the hill and down the ravine. It was very quiet there in the cemetery, all down the hill the sound of running water, trickling away.

  The two girls stood together by the heavy stone, hardly moving. They were talking very quietly and John was too far away to hear. Then he saw Isabelle take out a handkerchief and daub her eyes and Lillian began to cry a little, too. It was only an early winter twilight, but with the tall dark trees and woods behind it was hard to follow their movements. In the twilight all the big stones seemed to get larger, and yet were all a part with the snow-covered ground. Then, in the trees below on the hill, a bird cried out and another bird answered and they called to each other, and then a flock of small dark sparrows flew out from the trees across the gray sky to a patch of trees on the other side of the cemetery. Isabelle, kneeling, her coat under her knees, began to pray with her head low, and Lillian knelt down beside her. They put their arms around each other.

  Still standing by the hedge, John, glancing at the ground, saw the thick wet snow and was suddenly angry seeing them kneeling there. He was angry and at the same time saddened, no longer caring whether they saw him, so coming from behind the hedge he walked slowly down the path. It was getting dark and soon the caretaker would come and say he wanted to close the gates. The snow melted and water trickled down over the hill, and Lillian kneeling there, looking over the trees and hearing falling water, was praying for a lover in the gray light on the ground where her dead lover lay. She was praying for a lover, and all the time in the light of her own thoughts he was becoming more than he had ever been to her.

  John, so close now he could have spoken softly and they would have heard him, felt utterly unimportant and hurt to think he had become insignificant to Lillian and undesired, remembering the feeling from the strong excitement of their love for each other. He was calm now, in the silent cemetery, and he had been so far away they had moved like two figures belonging to the field of snow and mounds and stones. Hardly seeing Isabelle, he knew she was there. Close to her now, all his resentment came back and he trembled a little. He stood beside them and said: “Lillian, please come home.”

  They looked at him, and Isabelle, blessing herself, stood up. Lillian stood up, staring all around, hardly believing anyone had spoken. Isabelle said quietly: “You startled us, John.”

  He said quickly: “Don’t you think this is about enough, Isabelle?”

  “I don’t see that it is so surprising.”

  “You two coming in here now.”

  “No, people were coming out just when we were coming in. We were out for a walk and thought of coming down here. After all, they close the gates when they don’t want us to come in.”

  She spoke calmly, with assurance. Her cheeks were absolutely colorless but her eyes were bright and a little feverish. The wet snow had dampened all the lower part of her coat and she was coughing.

  “Let’s walk up out of here,” he said, taking Lil ian’s arm.

  Walking beside him, Lillian did not talk at all. The man at the gate, beckoning to them, said he wanted to close for the evening. The gray light remained in the sky and there was a clear outline of a pale moon.

  “You seemed to think it peculiar we should come down here,” Isabelle said.

  “I think it peculiar you should bring Lillian here.”

  “For my part,” she said, “I’ve been sick, I’ve had the flu; I’ve still got it, I guess. I don’t know what I’ve got. But I was thinking of Fred and thought it would be good to go walking with Lillian, and we decided to say a few prayers. Lillian wanted to come, too.”

  “She didn’t.”

  “I did,” Lillian said.

  “I think it only natural,” Isabelle said, “that a girl should occasionally go to the grave of a man she had loved and think of him. Lillian loved Fred and I loved him.” She was talking sensibly without any passion, as they walked slowly through the gates. The lights were now lit on the street.

  “Please, Lillian,” he said, “tell her she’s a fool and a little mad for bringing you down there in the dampness and the water running all down the hill.”

  “You know I loved Fred,” she said slowly.

  “But you don’t have to be stupid enough to go on thinking about him, though you never did before. You didn’t use to think of him.”

  “But I can’t help thinking of him now,” she said, and started to cry.

  “Do you see?” Isabelle said, looking directly at him.

  “I see all right. I loathe you. I hope you’re damned. You’re beyond redemption. I despise you.”

  “Stop it, John,” Lillian said.

  “Don’t cry here on the street,” he said savagely.

  “I can’t help it.”

  “Stop it, do you hear, you little fool.”

  “You’re only making me feel worse.”

  Turning suddenly to Isabelle he said: “You’re to blame for this, you morbid, silly creature. I hate to say anything to make you feel bad, but the trouble with you is you’re so egotistical you can’t think of anything but yourself. You’ve got to stop bothering us or I’ll wring your neck, do you hear? I’ll wring your crow’s neck. After tonight go and pick the bones of someone else.”

  “I think you’re a little unbalanced. You misinterpret everything,” Isabelle said.

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got it right.”

  “Poor John.”

  “I’m warning you to leave the two of us alone after tonight.”

  “Please go home, John, and leave us alone now,” Lillian said.“I’ll go. But I’m going to see you tomorrow.”

  “Please go along now. Go on.”

  “I’m going.”

  He walked on ahead of them up the street and turned the corner without looking back.

  Chapter Fifteen

  At lunchtime, he went to see Lillian, sure she would be in her apartment. All night he had hardly slept, falling asleep a little before dawn, after hearing faintly wheels of the first wagons grinding on the hard snow on the road.

  He rapped on th
e door. Lillian did not answer for a long time. Finally, the door opened, she stared at him and did not ask him to come in. Her eyes were swollen and she was so tired he was all compassion for her and put out his hand, his fingers almost touching her forehead before she drew back quickly: “Please don’t touch me,” she said.

  “Dear, Lillian.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Just to see how you are.” He tried to step into the room and she partly closed the door, holding him back, her face sullen and resentful. The edge of the door touching, though not hurting him, irritated him, so he pushed hard, forcing it back, while she pressed all her weight on the other side. They did not speak, just pushed hard against each other as though it were the one important thing to be done at the time. They were both acting foolishly, and he heard her breathing heavily, trying to hold the door as he slowly forced her back, her feet slipping on the hardwood floor.

  “This is nonsense,” he said.

  “Go away, do you hear, or I’ll call somebody.”

  “Don’t be a little idiot,” he said.

  Reaching out quickly, letting the door go, she swung her small hand, slapping him across the face. The door swung wide open, and standing before him, waving her head from side to side, talking rapidly, she said: “You come up here, do you? Of all the gall, of all the gall. And the way you went on talking to me all the time about Isabelle. Leaving the Errington place because it was cheaper. Oh, yes, why not? What else did you do? Of course you had to stop singing in the choir; for what reason was it? Let me see, I forget, let me think. Oh, yes, you were the victim of your environment; wasn’t it something like that? Nasty people of low reputation insisted upon being seen in your company. But you could go on hating, couldn’t you, couldn’t you? You did that best of all and had the strongest hates in the world till you were completely obsessed, and I . . . Oh, yes, that’s it, you loved me so much because you hated Isabelle so much. You had to keep it balanced, you . . .”