Three days after the walk along the street with Mr. Jarvis she wrote home to tell her mother Jerry had gone away again. Her mother said in a long letter that Jerry was a good-for-nothing who would never amount to a hill of beans in this world, and enclosed was the railroad fare home, if she wanted to come. There was some gossip in the letter about people she had known, two or three girls she had known at school were married and had babies. Thinking of these girls with their babies made her feel bad. Rather than go home and meet these people she would try and get a job in one of the department stores. She put the money for the railroad fare in the bank.
She went downtown but it was hard to get a job because of summer holidays and the slack time in all the big stores. In the evening, wondering what she could sell to the second-hand dealer, she selected two chairs. She put the chairs in a corner, and standing a few feet away, her hands on her hips, made up her mind to pay rent by the week from now on. Mrs. Oddy rapped on the door and wanted to know how Mrs. Austin was getting on with the rent money.
“At the end of the month I’ll start paying by the week,” Mrs. Austin said.
“Oh, that’s up to you, of course.”
“Yes, it’s up to me.”
“Are you sure you can get it? Of course it’s none of my business.”
“I’ll get it all right.”
Mrs. Oddy looked around the room and saw the chairs in the corner. Not sure of herself, she said, “Maybe you’ll need to be selling something soon.”
“Just a thing or two. I don’t know what’s the matter with Jerry, he should be back any day now.” She knew she didn’t want Jerry to come back.
“Well, if you’re selling stuff, I’ll always take that mirror for a fair price.”
“Oh, no thanks.”
“How much do you want for it?”
“I really wouldn’t sell it.”
“No?”
“Really no.”
Mrs. Oddy, sucking her lips, said mildly, “The girls across the hall say you’re a bit cuckoo, you and the mirror, I mean.”
“Well, I certainly like the nerve of those hussies.”
“Oh, I don’t know, they say you’re looking for a husband in the mirror.”
“Very clever.”
“I thought so myself.”
The girls across the hall had seen her combing her hair a few times, Mrs. Oddy explained. Mrs. Austin, listening politely, became indignant. Mrs. Austin had intended to speak fiercely but said, “The mirror is company for me in a way.”
Mrs. Oddy laughed good-humoredly. “We do have some queer people around here, quaint, I mean. You and the uppish Mr. Jarvis. We’ll find out a thing or two about him yet and out he’ll go.”
Mr. Jarvis had been two days late paying his room rent, she explained.
“What’s the matter with him?” she asked.
“There’s something fishy.”
“How do you mean, Mrs. Oddy?”
“For one thing, where does he work?”
“I don’t know. Do you?”
“He doesn’t work, that’s the point, and he’s so superior.”
“I don’t think so.”
“And much above everyone else around here, a mighty suspicious character, I tell you.”
Mrs. Oddy went out. When the door was closed Mrs. Austin started to laugh at her, a suspicious woman, a ridiculous woman with a long tongue and a loud voice, but suddenly remembering the girls across the hall she felt unhappy. Two waitresses found her amusing; commonplace girls with huge hands who took off their coats as soon as they got into the house and sat around in their vests. She had never seen Mr. Jarvis without his jacket on. Then she worried Mr. Jarvis would go away and there were things she wanted to say to him. Before going to bed that evening she combed her hair, smiling at herself in the mirror, wondering if she would be able to find the right words so she could tell him how much she liked him and would be happy if she could please him. For the first time she looked carefully at the mirror, the handsome oak frame, the wide bevel. She laughed out loud, thinking of Mrs. Oddy and the girls across the hall.
A week later Mrs. Oddy told her that Mr. Jarvis was again late with his rent and that they had come to a definite conclusion about him, and Mr. Oddy was going to give him so many hours to get out. Mr. Oddy had two minds to go over to a police station and see if the young man had a record.
Mrs. Austin waited for Mr. Jarvis to come home at five-thirty that evening. She imagined herself talking to him till she had convinced him she really loved him and they would be happy together in another city after she divorced Jerry. She was excited, feeling timidly that there was an understanding between them so she could talk freely.
He came up the stairs about half past five. Mrs. Austin heard Mrs. Oddy follow him upstairs. Then Mr. Oddy came up slowly. Mrs. Austin opened her door. Mrs. Oddy was saying, “My husband has something to say to you, young man.”
“That’s unusual,” Mr. Jarvis said.
“I’ve got nothing much to say,” Mr. Oddy said. “You’d better clear out, that’s all. This ain’t a charity circus.”
“No.”
“You heard me.”
“All right. You mind telling me what’s eating you?”
“You got two hours to get out,” Oddy said. “I know all about you, I had you looked up.”
“You’re a stupid man, Mr. Oddy.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Oddy said.
“You’re a great ox, Mr. Oddy.”
Mrs. Austin, stepping out in the hall, looked coldly at Mrs. Oddy and put her hands on her hips.
“You just can’t help being ridiculous, Mrs. Oddy,” she said.
“Well, I like your nerve, Mrs. Austin,” the landlady said. “An abandoned woman like you,” she said. “We’ve too many people like you. The house’ll get a bad name.” Mrs. Austin said she would certainly leave the house the next day.
Alone in her room, Mrs. Austin sat down to write home. She was excited and felt she wouldn’t really go home at all. She lay awake in bed wondering if she would be able to talk to Mr. Jarvis before he went away.
At noontime the next day he rapped at her door. He smiled and said he heard her say she was going home and he would like to escort her to the train station. He was polite and good-humored. The train didn’t go till four, she said. He offered to come at three. When he had gone she phoned an express company and arranged to have her furniture shipped home. She worked hard for an hour packing and cleaning. She dressed slowly and carefully. She took many deep breaths. She put on the blue serge suit and wore a small green felt hat fitting her head snugly.
At three o’clock he called. She hurried around the room, fussing, and getting herself excited. He said not to hurry, they had lots of time to walk to the station. They walked along the street, talking agreeably, a stout little woman in a green felt hat, and a short blue coat a little tight around the waist, trying not to feel much older than the neatly dressed fellow. She let herself think they were going away together. She didn’t think he would actually get on the train but it seemed as if he ought to. They talked about the Oddys. He said he would have a new job next week. When she saw the clock at the station tower she was uneasy because she couldn’t bring the conversation to a point where she could explain her feeling for him.
“I’m glad I met you at the Oddy’s, anyway,” she said.
“Well, it was a relief to meet you,” he said sincerely. He added that very few women knew how to mind their own business.
In the station she bought her ticket, fumbling in her purse for coins. She felt that something was slipping away from her. “He ought to speak to me,” she said to herself fiercely, then felt foolish for thinking it.
“It’s funny the Oddys had something against both of us,” she said. He laughed boyishly and helped her on the train.
“What did they have against you?” he said.
“They thought I was seeing things in the mirror. How about you?”
“I was ho
lding something back, something up my sleeve, I guess.”
“Funny the way they linked us together,” she said shyly.
“Yeah.”
“Don’t you think it was funny?”
“Yeah, you bet. The old dame was seeing things, not you.”
She stood on the last step, looking down at him and smiling awkwardly. She got confused when the train moved. “You’re a good sport,” he said, “I have an aunt just like you.”
He waved cheerfully. “Good luck, Mrs. Austin.”
“Good luck,” she repeated vaguely.
“Goodbye.”
“Goodbye . . .”
A VERY MERRY CHRISTMAS
After midnight on Christmas Eve hundreds of people prayed at the crib of the Infant Jesus, which was to the right of the altar under the evergreen-tree branches in St. Malachi’s Church. That night there had been a heavy fall of wet snow, and there was a muddy path up to the crib. Both Sylvanus O’Meara, the old caretaker who had helped to prepare the crib, and Father Gorman, the stout, red-faced, excitable parish priest, had agreed it was the most lifelike tableau of the Child Jesus in a corner of the stable at Bethlehem they had ever had in the church.
But early on Christmas morning Father Gorman came running to see O’Meara, the blood drained out of his face and his hands pumping up and down at his sides, and he shouted, “A terrible thing has happened. Where is the Infant Jesus? The crib’s empty.”
O’Meara, who was a devout, innocent, wondering old man, who prayed a lot and always felt very close to God in the church, was bewildered and he whispered. “Who could have taken it? Taken it where?”
“Take a look in the crib yourself, man, if you don’t believe me,” the priest said, and he grabbed the caretaker by the arm, marched him into the church and over to the crib and showed him that the figure of the Infant Jesus was gone.
“Someone took it, of course. It didn’t fly away. But who took it, that’s the question?” the priest said. “When was the last time you saw it?”
“I know it was here last night,” O’Meara said, “because after the midnight mass when everybody else had gone home I saw Mrs. Farrel and her little boy kneeling up here, and when they stood up I wished them a Merry Christmas. You don’t think she’d touch it, do you?”
“What nonsense, O’Meara. There’s not a finer woman in the parish. I’m going over to her house for dinner tonight.”
“I noticed that she wanted to go home, but the little boy wanted to stay there and keep praying by the crib; but after they went home I said a few prayers myself and the Infant Jesus was still there.”
Grabbing O’Meara by the arm the priest whispered excitedly, “It must be the work of communists or atheists.” There was a sudden rush of blood to his face. “This isn’t the first time they’ve struck at us,” he said.
“What would communists want with the figure of the Infant Jesus?” O’Meara asked innocently. “They wouldn’t want to have it to be reminded that God was with them. I didn’t think they could bear to have Him with them.”
“They’d take it to mock at us, of course, and to desecrate the church. O’Meara, you don’t seem to know much about the times we live in. Why did they set fire to the church?”
O’Meara said nothing because he was very loyal and he didn’t like to remind the priest that the little fire they had in the church a few months ago was caused by a cigarette butt the priest had left in his pocket when he was changing into his vestments, so he was puzzled and silent for a while and then whispered, “Maybe someone really wanted to take God away, do you think so?”
“Take Him out of the church?”
“Yes. Take Him away.”
“How could you take God out of the church, man? Don’t be stupid.”
“But maybe someone thought you could, don’t you see?”
“O’Meara, you talk like an old idiot. Don’t you realize you play right into the hands of the atheists, saying such things? Do we believe an image is God? Do we worship idols? We do not. No more of that, then. If communists and atheists tried to burn this church once, they’ll not stop till they desecrate it. God help us, why is my church marked out for this?” He got terribly excited and rushed away shouting, “I’m going to phone the police.”
It looked like the beginning of a terrible Christmas Day for the parish. The police came, and were puzzled, and talked to everybody. Newspapermen came. They took pictures of the church and of Father Gorman, who had just preached a sermon that startled the congregation because he grew very eloquent on the subject of vandal outrages to the house of God. Men and women stood outside the church in their best clothes and talked very gravely. Everybody wanted to know what the thief would do with the image of the Infant Jesus. They all were wounded, stirred and wondering. There certainly was going to be something worth talking about at a great many Christmas dinners in the neighborhood.
But Sylvanus O’Meara went off by himself and was very sad. From time to time he went into the church and looked at the empty crib. He had all kinds of strange thoughts. He told himself that if someone really wanted to hurt God, then just wishing harm to Him really hurt Him, for what other way was there of hurting Him? Last night he had had the feeling that God was all around the crib, and now it felt as if God wasn’t there at all. It wasn’t just that the image of the Infant Jesus was gone, but someone had done violence to that spot and had driven God away from it. He told himself that things could be done that would make God want to leave a place. It was very hard to know where God was. Of course, He would always be in the church, but where had that part of Him that had seemed to be all around the crib gone?
It wasn’t a question he could ask the little groups of astonished parishioners who stood on the sidewalk outside the church, because they felt like wagging their fingers and puffing their cheeks out and talking about what was happening to God in Mexico and Spain.
But when they had all gone home to eat their Christmas dinners, O’Meara himself began to feel a little hungry. He went out and stood in front of the church and was feeling thankful that there was so much snow for the children on Christmas Day when he saw that splendid and prominent woman, Mrs. Farrel, coming along the street with her little boy. On Mrs. Farrel’s face there was a grim and desperate expression and she was taking such long fierce strides that the five-year-old boy, whose hand she held so tight, could hardly keep up with her and pull his big red sleigh. Sometimes the little boy tried to lean back and was a dead weight and then she pulled his feet off the ground while he whimpered, “Oh, gee, oh, gee, let me go.” His red snowsuit was all covered with snow as if he had been rolling on the road.
“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Farrel,” O’Meara said. He called to the boy, “Not happy on Christmas Day? What’s up, son?”
“Merry Christmas, indeed, Mr. O’Meara,” the woman snapped to him. She was not accustomed to paying much attention to the caretaker, a curt nod was all she ever gave him, and now she was far too angry and mortified to bother with him. “Where’s Father Gorman?” she demanded.
“Still at the police station, I think.”
“At the police station! God help us, did you hear that, Jimmie?” she said, and she gave such a sharp tug at the boy’s arm that she spun him around in the snow behind her skirts where he cowered, watching O’Meara with a curiously steady pair of fine blue eyes. He wiped away a mat of hair from his forehead as he watched and waited. “Oh, Lord, this is terrible,” Mrs. Farrel said. “What will I do?”
“What’s the matter, Mrs. Farrel?”
“I didn’t do anything,” the child said. “I was coming back here. Honest I was, mister.”
“Mr. O’Meara,” the woman began, as if coming down from a great height to the level of an unimportant and simple-minded old man, “maybe you could do something for us. Look in the sleigh.”
O’Meara saw that an old coat was wrapped around something on the sleigh, and stooping to lift it, he saw the figure of the Infant Jesus there. He was so delighted he only loo
ked up at Mrs. Farrel and shook his head in wonder and said, “It’s back and nobody harmed it at all.”
“I’m ashamed, I’m terribly ashamed, Mr. O’Meara. You don’t know how mortified I am,” she said, “but the child really didn’t know what he was doing. It’s a disgrace to us, I know. It’s my fault that I haven’t trained him better, though God knows I’ve tried to drum respect for the Church into him.” She gave such a jerk at the child’s hand he slid on his knee in the snow keeping his eyes on O’Meara.
Still unbelieving, O’Meara asked. “You mean he really took it from the church?”
“He did, he really did.”
“Fancy that. Why, child, that was a terrible thing to do,” O’Meara said. “Whatever got into you?” Completely mystified he turned to Mrs. Farrel, but he was so relieved to have the figure of the Infant Jesus back without there having been any great scandal that he couldn’t help putting his hand gently on the child’s back.
“It’s all right, and you don’t need to say anything,” the child said, pulling away angrily from his mother, and yet he never took his eyes off O’Meara, as if he felt there was some bond between them. Then he looked down at his mitts, fumbled with them and looked up steadily and said, “It’s all right, isn’t it mister?”
“It was early this morning, right after he got up, almost the first thing he must have done on Christmas Day,” Mrs. Farrel said. “He must have walked right in and picked it up and taken it out to the street.”
“But what got into him?”
“He makes no sense about it. He says he had to do it.”
“’Cause it was a promise,” the child said, “I promised last night, I promised God that if He would make Mother bring me a big red sleigh for Christmas I would give Him the first ride on it.”
“Don’t think I’ve taught the child foolish things,” Mrs. Farrel said. “I’m sure he meant no harm. He didn’t understand at all what he was doing.”
The Complete Stories of Morley Callaghan Page 4