The Complete Stories of Morley Callaghan

by Callaghan, Morley; Atwood, Margaret;

  Seeing him there with the club, Thor tried to hold Dan down with his paws. Then he suddenly growled as he let go Dan’s shoulder and whirled on Luke.

  “Luke, come away from him!” Elmer screamed.

  “Run, Luke,” Eddie yelled. “Get someone at Stevenson’s, Woody.”

  Woody started to run across the field to Stevenson’s house as Luke, waiting, watched Thor’s trembling lip. The big dog’s growl was deep with satisfaction as he came two steps closer, the head going down.

  In Luke’s mind it was all like a dream. It was like a dream of Mr. Highbottom telling him he had once pounded Thor on the head with a club, and of a story he had once read about Indians pounding the heads of wild dogs with clubs. But it was important that he should not wait, that he should attack the dog and cow him.

  Dan, free now, had tried to get up and then had fallen back and was watching him with his glowing eye.

  With a deep warning growl Thor crouched, and Luke rushed at him and cracked him on the skull, swinging the club with both hands. The big dog, trying to leap at him, knocked him down, and when he staggered to his feet Thor was there, shaking his head stupidly, but still growling. Not waiting now, Luke rushed at him and whacked him on the head again and again. The crazy dog would not run; he was still trying to jump at him. Suddenly the dog lurched, his legs buckled, he rolled over on his side and was still.

  While Elmer and Eddie were looking at him as if they were afraid of him, Luke did a thing he hated himself for doing. He went over and sat down beside Dan and put his hand on Dan’s head, and then he started to cry. He couldn’t help it; it was just relief; he felt weak and he ground his fists in his eyes.

  “Holy cow,” Elmer said in relief, “you might have got killed.”

  “Luke,” Eddie said softly.

  “Are you all right, Luke?”

  “You better put the chain on that dog of yours, Elmer,” Luke said when he could get his breath. “You’d better tie him up to the tree.”

  “Maybe he’s dead. What if he’s dead?”

  “Not that dog. Not that crazy dog. It’s Dan that’s hurt.”

  When Elmer was linking the chain to his dog’s collar, the animal’s legs trembled convulsively. Opening his eyes he tried to get to his feet, but Elmer had no trouble dragging him over to the tree and looping the chain around it.

  Across the field at the gate to the Stevenson house, Mr. Stevenson was talking with Woody Alliston. They could see him point and shrug — there seemed to be no trouble over there by the tree — then he turned back to the house and Woody came on alone.

  “Let’s see your shoulder, Dan,” Luke said gently to the collie lying quietly beside him. The collie knew he had been hurt, knew the muscle above the shoulder was torn and bleeding, yet he lay quietly and patiently, regaining his strength while his flanks heaved.

  “Okay, okay,” Luke said softly. Taking out his handkerchief he dabbed at the blood already congealing on the fur. The other boys, kneeling down beside Luke, were silent. Sometimes they looked at Luke’s white face. When he had mopped up the blood, he began to stroke Dan’s head softly, and Dan, wiggling his tail a little, thumped the grass three times.

  “Maybe he’s not hurt so bad,” Elmer said nervously, for Dan, swinging his head around, had begun to lick the wound patiently; the clean pink tongue and the saliva on the tongue were cleaning and soothing the slash, and Luke and the other boys seemed to be waiting for Dan to come to a conclusion about the seriousness of the wound.

  “Can you get up, Dan?” Luke whispered. “Come on, try, boy.”

  Slowly the collie rose and hobbled on three legs in a little circle. Coming over to Luke, who was kneeling and waiting anxiously, the old collie rubbed his nose against Luke’s neck, then flopped down again.

  “I guess he’ll be all right, will he?” Elmer asked anxiously.

  “Maybe that leg won’t be so good again,” Luke said mournfully. “Maybe it’ll never be good again.”

  “Sure it will, if nothing is broken, Luke,” Elmer insisted, as he got up and thrust his hands into his pockets and walked around aimlessly, his freckled face full of concern. Once he stopped and looked at his own dog, which was crouched by the tree, his eyes following Elmer. Thor was a subdued dog now. Growing more meditative and more unhappy, Elmer finally blurted out, “I guess you’ll tell your uncle what happened, eh, Luke?”

  “You knew Dan was my uncle’s dog,” Luke said grimly.

  “If you tell your uncle — well, your uncle will tell my father, and then there will be awful trouble, Luke.”

  “Well, you knew there’d be trouble, Elmer.”

  “I only wanted to scare you and chase Dan,” Elmer insisted. “I thought Dan would run and howl. I didn’t know Thor would turn on you. Gee, Luke, I was crazy. I didn’t stop to think.” With a sudden pathetic hopefulness he muttered, “I could have told my father that your dog slashed at me. Only I didn’t, Luke. I didn’t say anything, though he asked me how I tore my pants.”

  “Okay, you didn’t say anything, Elmer. So what?”

  “Maybe if you don’t say anything, eh, Luke?”

  “I can look after myself too,” Luke said grandly.

  “Well — in that case I’d sure think you were a great guy, Luke,” Elmer said.

  “Sure, he’s a great guy,” Eddie agreed firmly.

  Eddie and Woody wanted to make friendly gestures to Luke, and they didn’t quite know how to do it. They felt awkward and ashamed. They took turns petting Dan lovingly. They asked Luke if he wouldn’t go swimming down at the dock after lunch. “I’ll walk home with you, Luke,” Eddie said. “I’d like to see if Dan gets home all right.”

  “I’m not letting him walk all that distance,” Luke said, and he knelt down, gathered Dan in his arms and hoisted him up on his shoulder. On the way across the field Luke and Eddie took their time and worried about Dan.

  “Let me carry him now,” Eddie said.

  “No, we’ll see if he can walk a little,” Luke said.

  It was extraordinary how effectively the old dog could travel on three legs. He hopped along briskly. Sometimes he would stop and let the wounded leg come down firmly, as if testing it, then come hopping along until Luke picked him up again.

  “We should take it easy,” Luke said. “We should rest a little now and then.” When they got to the road leading to the mill they sat down in the grass and took turns stroking Dan’s head.

  Going along that road, and resting every three hundred yards, Luke and Eddie were beginning a new relationship with each other. They both knew it, and so they were a little shy and very respectful to each other. While they were talking about Dan they were really trying to draw closer together. Eddie was offering a sincere admiring friendship, and Luke knew it and accepted it gravely.

  “Well, I’ll look for you this afternoon,” Eddie said.

  “At the dock. Sure, Eddie.”

  “Yeah. At the dock. Well, I’ll be seeing you, Luke.”

  Halfway up the path Luke suddenly dropped on his knees and put his arms around Dan. It was as if the dog had really been struggling not only against the big wild Thor but against the barrier between Luke and the other boys. “You’re some dog, Dan,” he whispered, rubbing his face against the dog’s nose, trying to show his gratitude.

  But when he got back to the mill and saw Uncle Henry going toward the house, mounting the veranda steps, opening the screen door, his step decisive, his face so full of sensible determination, Luke longed to be able to tell him what had happened, not only because the dog was Uncle Henry’s property — and property ought to be protected — but because he suddenly believed that Uncle Henry would have done just what he himself had done, and would be proud of him. “The sensible thing would have been to pick up a club and smack that crazy dog on the head,” he could almost hear Uncle Henry say. “Why, that’s just what I did, Uncle Henry,” Luke imagined himself explaining as he followed Uncle Henry into the house. But of course he would never be able to se
e this glow of approval in his uncle’s eyes.

  THE DUEL

  In their light summer suits they kept coming up the steps from the Christopher Street subway into the warm night, their bright faces moving from the shadow into the streetlight. Sometimes they came slowly in groups, but those who were alone hurried when they reached the street. At first there were so many girls that Luther Simpson, standing a little piece away on Seventh Avenue, thought Inez would surely be among them. “She’ll be on the next train,” he thought. “If she’s not on that, I’ll only wait three trains more.”

  He grew more and more desolate, more uncertain and fearful, and yet, looking along the lighted avenue and remembering how often he and Inez had been among these people at this hour, he felt eager and almost hopeful. This was his neighborhood, here among these people; they looked just the same as they did on any other night when he and Inez were together. At any moment she was apt to come hurrying along; she would try hard to look severe, smile in spite of herself, look very lovely, start to speak, and then maybe laugh a little instead, and then they would link arms awkwardly and walk in silence.

  But because he could not help feeling fearful, Luther started to walk along the side street toward her house, so he would be sure of not missing her. When he was nearly there a taxi stopped a few houses away with the engine running. The driver turned and hung open the door, and there was a little movement of his shoulders as he made himself more comfortable in his seat. Then the engine was turned off. After what seemed a very long time a big man in a gray flannel suit stepped out and then helped Inez to the pavement. He helped her out with a special tenderness, and when he made a little bow to her the light shone on his high forehead and black hair. “Good night, Inez. You’re a darling,” he was saying.

  She was smiling; her face looked more lovely than Luther had thought it would look when he was thinking of her coming along and smiling at him. “It was such a super time,” she said gaily.

  “Dream about it,” the man said, grinning.

  “I’ll try hard,” she called as she turned, waving her hand. Her face in that light was full of a glowing excitement; there was a reckless, laughing joy in it that Luther had never seen before, as if she had just come from some kind of delightful amusement she had not known for a long time, something that had left her a little breathless. The sound of her laughter scared Luther. It seemed to be the very sound he had been waiting for so fearfully. Now, in her white linen suit and white shoes, she was going across the pavement. She was taking the key out of her purse. Pausing an instant, she pulled off her hat and shook her thick, dark hair free. And then, as she opened the door, he called out sharply, “Inez, Inez, wait a minute.”

  Startled, she turned, but she did not speak. She stood there watching him coming toward her, and when he was close to her she said in a cool, even tone, “What do you want, Luther?”

  “What were you doing with that guy, Inez? Where have you been?” He took hold of her by the arm as if she had always belonged to him and now he was entitled to punish her, but when she pulled her arm away so very firmly he stopped speaking, as if he could not get his breath.

  “It’s none of your business where I was, Luther,” she said. “I’m going in now, if you don’t mind.”

  “Who was that guy?”

  “I won’t tell you.”

  “Was that the first time you were out with him?”

  “I won’t tell you,” she said wearily. “I’m going in.”

  He was trying to think of something harsh to say that would hurt her, but as he realized how aloof she was, how untouched by his presence, he grew frightened, and he said, “Listen, I was only kidding the other night. I’m not sore now, I love you, Inez. Only you should have said you were going out with someone else when I phoned. You said you were going to see your cousin.”

  “Supposing I did.”

  “Well . . . you ought . . . Never mind that. I’m not sore. I can understand you might want to see a show sometimes like we used to. Were you at a show? See, I’m not sore. Look at me.” Luther was trying to smile like an amiable young man who was happy to see people having a good time, but when Inez did look up at him she wasn’t reassured at all.

  She grew very agitated and said angrily, “You’ve got a nerve, Luther. You weren’t content to leave things the way they were. Any girl would get tired of the way you go . . .” She didn’t finish, she felt an ache growing in her for all the good times they had had during these last three years. Every trivial pleasure they had shared seemed to have an intense meaning now. And then she blurted out, “I’m sick and tired of the way you’ve been going on, Luther. That’s all over, I’ve made up my mind.”

  “No, you haven’t, Inez. I was irritable the other night. I was thinking I’d never get work. I was thinking we’d never be able to get married. I was thinking I’d go crazy.”

  “Did I ever complain?”

  “No. You really didn’t.”

  “You said yourself you were fed up.”

  “I wasn’t fed up with you, Inez. I was fed up with borrowing money from you and letting you do things for me. It got so it was terrible having you buy coffee and things like that for us, don’t you see?”

  “I didn’t say anything, but you kept yelling at me that I was discontented.”

  “I meant I’d like to be able to be doing little things for you. That’s why I started to quarrel and shout at you.”

  “You kept saying it so often now I believe it,” she said, taking a deep breath and then, sighing wearily, “Maybe I was discontented.”

  “Did I really make you feel it was all hopeless?”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “Then I’m a nut. I love you.”

  With her face turned away, as if she dared not listen, she started to go into the apartment house. She did not want him to see how bewildered she was. As she opened the door she said so softly that he could hardly hear, “Goodnight, Luther.”

  “I won’t go. You can’t do a thing like that. Tell me where you were tonight,” and he pressed his face against the glass of the door, catching a last glimpse of her ankles and then her shoes as she went up the stairs. At first he was so resentful that he wanted to pound on the door with his fist, but almost at once he felt weak and spent, and he walked away and crossed the road so he could look up at her apartment.

  Standing there, he waited to see her shadow pass across the lowered window shade as she moved around the room, but there was no shadow, nothing to show she was in the room. At last he noticed the faintest movement of the window drape, low down, at the corner, and then a little thin streak of light. Someone was there, peering out at the street. She was watching him, he knew, trying to hide, probably kneeling on the floor with her eyes level with the windowsill. He felt a surge of joy. Inez could not leave him like that. She had to watch him. She had to kneel there, feeling herself pulled strongly toward him, unable to go while he was looking up at her window.

  But it was very hard to have her up there and not be able to talk to her. He felt now a vast apology in himself for anything he might have done to destroy the tenderness she had felt for him. It was so splendid to be able to hold her there, making her watch him, that he longed to be able to do something that would coax her back to him; and he kept growing more hopeful, as if he had only to keep looking at the window faithfully for awhile and the drape would be pulled to one side, the shade raised, and she would beckon to him. The same summer night air, the same murmur of city sounds, were there around them now as they had been on other nights, when they had felt so close to one another. If only she could hear him, how he would plead with her. He whispered, “I’m not sore, only you should have said you were going out with someone when I phoned.” He knew that she was kneeling there, feeling the struggle within her; all her restlessness and the bitterness of the last few days were pulling her one way, and something much deeper, that weakened her and filled her with melancholy, was resisting strongly. He said aloud, “That guy didn’t
mean a thing, you just wanted a little amusement, right?”

  As he kept looking up at the window, he grew full of persuasion, full of confidence because he still held her there. All the love between them that had been built up out of so many fine, hopeful, eager moments was offering too much resistance to the bitterness that was pulling her the other way.

  Knowing her so close to him, he began to feel a new boldness; he felt that she must have been persuaded and had yielded to him. He began to move across the street, looking up at the lighted room.

  But when he reached the middle of the street, it was as though the struggle had been decided: she had left the window he knew, for in the room the light was turned out.

  Running ahead, he rang the apartment bell; he waited, and then rang again, and then kept on ringing. There was no answer, and he wanted to shout, “She thinks I’m crazy? All right. All right.”

  He ran to the corner, his thoughts raced with him: “She thinks she won’t make a mistake. She thinks I’ll never get anywhere, I can’t show a girl the town, like that guy that rides in taxicabs. I’ll get money, I’ll get clothes, I’ll get girls, pretty girls.” These thoughts rushed through his mind as though he had become buoyant and confident. He reached the corner and stood looking up Seventh Avenue. There was no breeze, and the air was warm and muggy. He looked up the street as far as he could, and then he took a deep, tired breath.

  THE THING THAT HAPPENED TO UNCLE ADOLPHE

  When his mother died, Albert came from the country to his Uncle Adolphe’s shoe-repair shop to learn his uncle’s trade and go to school. His uncle was squat and broad-shouldered, and powerful, with a glistening bald head and a fringe of gray hair. It was fun working for him. Albert ran messages and delivered shoes and then came back and sat around watching his uncle trim the leather for a pair of soles with his short, sharp knife.