The Complete Stories of Morley Callaghan

by Callaghan, Morley; Atwood, Margaret;

  “Somehow I think that’ll bring Eddie around to you,” Haggerty said, grinning. “He likes things to be done in a nice way.”

  “Oh, geez, Mr. Haggerty,” Ray said, then he couldn’t go on, and Mike, feeling envious and lonely, walked around the table and back to his chair, and stared morosely at Ray who sat clutching the paper in both hands. “I must have done the right thing,” Ray said. “I couldn’t think of the right things, but I did them. How is it a guy like me, when things get tight, knows what to do?”

  “You’ll always survive,” Mike said, irritated by Ray’s relief.

  “That’s a great trick — to know how to survive.”

  “Paying no attention to Ray,” Haggerty said. “Mike, listen Mike, are you listening to me?”

  “Sure, I’m listening,” Mike said glumly.

  “Well, look Mike. This thing will come up in a magistrate’s court to see if you’ll be committed for trial and, of course, you can elect whether you’ll be tried by a judge or jury. If it comes to that take a jury. But listen. Tell this Louis Applebaum, as soon as he comes down here — right now, and for this, the preliminary hearing — get Roger Ouimet. Tell him to get Ouimet at once. Understand?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Mike said slowly as he pondered. Then he jerked his head back more confidently. “That’s a real idea. I don’t care what it costs. It must be Ouimet.”

  ✧ XXV ✧

  It had turned cooler. The weather was much more seasonal the morning at ten when Mike was brought into the police court to answer to the charge of manslaughter in the death of Harry Lane. The police court was in that courthouse where Scotty Bowman had been tried. But the magistrate’s court had none of the distinction or solemnity of that courtroom where Judge Montpetit’s court had presided. Before Mike had been called three drunks and a burglar had been sentenced by the beery little magistrate with the rimless glasses, the red nose and dandruff on his shoulders. The courtroom was crowded because the story about the coat had appeared in all the newspapers. While Mike was out on bail his telephone had rung all day long; people he hardly knew had called to express their sympathy. Again and again they had said, “Mike, rest assured, you only did what you had to do.”

  Carrying his head high, and with a stern expression, Mike was led into the courtroom, wearing a dark-gray suit. Again and again he had been assured he had nothing to be ashamed of. He had the manner of a man who believed he had the confidence and support of decent people who had a respect for justice. Stepping into the prisoner’s box he looked around calmly. The Dorfman crowd was there and Mollie Morris sat in the back row, not at the press table, dressed in black, with a veil.

  When Roger Ouimet came in the little magistrate bowed to him and Henderson, who was already at the lawyers’ table, also bowed. Ouimet was bringing some legal distinction and elegance to the common police court.

  Then Mike was told to stand up while the charge against him was read. He was asked how he pleaded. “Not guilty,” he said quietly.

  Haggerty, the first witness, a very gray-headed, gray-faced, embarrassed witness, did a lot of wheezing as he told what he had seen in Dorfman’s the night Harry was killed. When Henderson, questioning him, asked him gently to speak up, Haggerty got impatient and determined, and he told a good clear story.

  “Now for the coat,” Henderson said, and he turned to the magistrate. “This is exhibit A,” and he held up the coat so the whole court and the magistrate could see the ragged lining. Nobody laughed. “You say animosity developed between these two men, although Kon offered to fix the coat. Tell us what you heard,” and Haggerty told what he had seen and heard in Dorfman’s.

  “Let’s see that coat,” the little magistrate said, and it was passed up to him. “You say Harry Lane deliberately wore this coat when Kon was around.”

  “I do.”

  “A garment like this,” the magistrate said, squinting at the coat again. “Was he drunk all the time?”

  “He was drinking a little more toward the end.”

  “And finally Kon tried to get the coat.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And he got this punch on the jaw.”

  “That’s right.”

  Ouimet, smiling appreciatively, said he had no desire to question the witness, and then Ray Conlin was called. Mike didn’t know what Conlin might say and he leaned forward nervously. Ray had his hair slicked back and he wore a tie, for the first time all summer he wore a tie, his little black eyes gleaming eagerly. “I was in this thing from the beginning,” he said importantly. “Just answer the questions as they’re asked,” Henderson said and Mike smiled faintly. Conlin said he had seen that Harry was trying to torment Mike by refusing to let him fix the coat and it seemed unfair. After he had put himself in this authoritative light he told about seeing the blows struck in Dorfman’s, his hands moving as he talked and his body weaving with the punches. His story was Haggerty’s and Ouimet, almost bored, said he didn’t wish to question him.

  “Annie Laurie McNiece,” Henderson said.

  “Annie Laurie McNiece,” the policeman at the door called along the corridor. People who had known her for years turned, startled; they had forgotten she had a surname. She came in wearing a black dress with a little white collar and a small white hat, her eyes in her pale face looking enormous. As she approached the witness box Mike didn’t know why she upset him. Unless it was that he hadn’t realized that she could look so elegantly sedate. When Henderson questioned her about the fight in Dorfman’s she answered as Haggerty had done, and truthfully, and Mike relaxed — she didn’t sound at all hostile.

  “You recognize this coat?” Henderson asked, holding it up.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ve seen a good deal of it. “

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Lane was wearing it just to spite Kon?”

  “Oh, no.”

  “No?”

  “No, you see at the time Mike and Harry quarreled about the coat and Mike accused Harry of trying to ruin him as he had ruined Scotty Bowman, Mike was being brave enough to say what everybody thought.”

  “But you say Lane wasn’t wearing the coat to spite Kon.”

  “Not just to spite him. It was the injustice of the whole thing,” and she turned to the magistrate. “You know, sir, just like you might light a candle on Good Friday.”

  “Really,” the magistrate said, leaning closer to her.

  “I think so.”

  “And Lane felt wronged?” the magistrate asked.

  “Oh, he was wronged all right,” she said shrugging. “I knew both Harry and Bowman. All Harry did was try and save Bowman from the full force of the law. Maybe if you do a thing like that the full force falls on you. But Harry was a gentleman.”

  “Your Honor, your Honor,” Ouimet protested angrily. “This is outrageous. This is not evidence at all.”

  “It may be outrageous,” the magistrate said testily, thrusting out his red nose at Ouimet. “I’m trying to understand something about the background of this case. I’m also trying to decide whether the accused should be committed for trial. If you want to object you can do all the objecting you want to in a higher court. How am I hurting your client?”

  Mike was afraid that Ouimet, with his cold superiority, might irritate the unpredictable stubborn little magistrate, waiting with his evil little smile, yet he wanted Ouimet to stop Annie Laurie, who was making him feel ashamed and afraid of his own thoughts, and Ouimet pondered, weighing whether Annie Laurie might not be actually making Mike a more sympathetic figure; then he sat down slowly, his eyes on her.

  “You say Lane believed he was wronged, not just by Kon, but by everybody,” Henderson asked her.

  “That’s right, sir,” she said. “Mike was being wronged, too.”

  “You saw that he was being wronged,” Henderson asked and Mike, relaxing, saw Ouimet smile with relief.

  “Yes, sir. Everybody knows now he must have been wronged because he punched Harry on the jaw,” a
nd then she added quickly with a shrug, “The trouble was Harry didn’t have a chance to punch Bowman on the jaw so nobody believes he was wronged.”

  Again Ouimet half rose, disgusted, but the magistrate, smiling, said, “That may be simple enough to be profound, but I don’t think we should have any further reference to the Bowman case from the witness.”

  “Listening to the witness is like listening to a judgment from the appeal court,” Ouimet said jovially without bothering to stand up.

  “One thing more,” Henderson said to her smiling. “You’re doing a lot of thinking, but you can’t vouch for any of these things, can you now?”

  “Yes, I can,” she said.

  “How so?”

  “Harry Lane told me the whole story.”

  “Oh, and you believed him?”

  “I believed him.”

  “I see,” Henderson said, still smiling. “Now when Kon tried to take the coat . . .”

  “I think Mr. Kon was goaded into it,” she said quietly.

  “Goaded into it — by Harry Lane.”

  “Oh, no. Goaded into it by everybody.”

  “Everybody?” Henderson said, astonished, and there was an indignant murmur from the spectators.

  “Yes, everybody,” she said firmly, “because of the way they felt about Scotty Bowman and Harry going free, and Mike being Scotty’s friend, although I know you don’t want me to mention that again,” and she turned apologetically to the magistrate.

  Mike’s scarred brow had come down over his eyes and he flushed. He felt enormously belittled and in the moment’s pain he seemed to lose all his dignity as an outraged man taking his fate into his own hands and striking at the man who was ruining him.

  Taking a little time, Ouimet walked up and down in front of the lawyers’ table, for he was still wondering whether Annie Laurie had helped or hurt Mike’s case with the magistrate. Then he turned to her almost genially. “By the way,” he said, “how do you earn your living?”

  “Well, one way and another,” she said stiffly.

  “How do you live? Tell us, please.”

  “I live well enough.”

  “On money you get from men?” When she didn’t answer he said, coolly, “And I suppose in return you have to give them a certain amount of sympathetic understanding and belief, if they pay for it?”

  “I know I’m not respectable,” she said defiantly, “but that’s just the point you’re missing. A man doesn’t have to lie to me to impress me. Do you think Harry’s being with me helped him with more respectable people? Figure that out, and also this one, too — whatever Harry Lane was, it ought to be clear now he wasn’t a coward. Somebody was, don’t you think, and I don’t mean Mike Kon.”

  “All right. All right,” Ouimet said impatiently, wanting to get rid of her. “I defended Mr. Bowman once. I don’t think the case is going to be reopened.”

  “Is that all the evidence?” the magistrate asked Henderson.

  “That’s all, your worship.”

  “Your worship,” Ouimet said deferentially. “I’m prepared of course to discuss this evidence, if you think it would be helpful. But right now I’m moving for a dismissal of the charge.”

  “That all depends,” the magistrate said, turning to Henderson. “Are you pressing for a committal?”

  “I’m not pressing if you have already formed an opinion.”

  “Well, I have. It seems to be that the accused under extreme provocation was trying to defend himself. Once the accused had been struck by Lane, it was not unreasonable that he should strike back. It was unfortunate that the steps were there. I see no justification for making the accused stand trial. Case dismissed.”

  There was a burst of applause which the magistrate did not try to restrain. The policeman, standing beside the dock, said to Mike, “All right. On your way,” and Mike, taking a deep breath, and then letting it out slowly in vast relief, stepped down. Ouimet, smiling, shook hands with him.

  In the corridor many friends, and many who Mike did not know, crowded around to shake hands and pat him on the back. It all added to his relief, especially the surprising real indignation in their faces. Only Mollie Morris did not come near him. He saw her hurrying along the corridor alone, her head down, hurrying as though someone pursued her, no matter how fast she walked, although no one was following her at all.

  The hands kept coming out to Mike, each handclasp buoying him up a little more, until he saw Annie Laurie come out of the courtroom. She was watching him, an odd smile on her face. Gradually he grew ashamed of the hands coming out to him, and when she moved away he broke loose from his well-wishers and caught up to her.

  “Annie Laurie,” he said awkwardly. “I’m sorry it happened.”

  “Oh, I was sure you’d get off, Mike,” and she started to go.

  “Wait a minute,” he said uncomfortably. “That stuff about me being goaded on by everybody. Well, thanks, I think it helped me. But what am I supposed to be — the public executioner?”

  “Oh, Lord, no,” she said, shrugging. “Those guys are never popular. So long, Mike,” and he watched her saunter away. She had a very lazy, indolent, very beautiful walk, and it bothered him.

  When he got away from his friends he went home and climbed the stairs to his apartment and sat down beside his father. Since the night the old man tried to write the words on the pad he hadn’t talked to him about Harry, nor had he told him that Harry was dead. Aside from worrying the old man, he had felt he might arouse in himself some remorse. Even now the one sharp eye seemed to be questioning him. I have killed a man. I’m a human being. I don’t feel good, he thought. It began to bother him, remembering how he had felt goaded. Again he wondered why he had stopped talking to the old man, and why even now he hesitated to tell him the end of the story. Then he thought, supposing, as Annie Laurie had said, Harry had rushed across the courtroom and had punched Scotty on the jaw. A hard thing to do in a courtroom. A hard thing to do when the man is in jail, or when he is dead. Only a girl like her would have said such a thing. Then he wondered why he had been so sure that his father, trying to write the words Justice or Judge and Not, had only him and his case in mind, and not Harry and Scotty Bowman. This too began to worry him. Then he turned to his father as though pleading with him. “Everybody was sure of Scotty because he was so prudent. Harry, an imprudent guy, an open book. Such guys ruin themselves and others, don’t they?” But thinking of prudence gave him no comfort. Scotty could have kept silent out of a fine sense of prudence, it could have kept him off the stand. Who knows what goes on in a prudent man’s mind? They’re too prudent to ever let you know. I never thought of that before, and standing up suddenly he cursed Annie Laurie.

  The phone began to ring; it was some well-wisher he hardly knew; then the office buzzer sounded and he went down to the shop. A customer shook hands with him and offered him sympathy. Old customers kept coming in and new ones too. It kept up all day, and they all expected to see him and they all expected to shake hands with him warmly and talk about Harry Lane.

  The story of what had happened at the preliminary investigation, very colorfully done by the reporters, appeared in the newspapers next day and more people came into the store. Some of them bought suits. Haggerty, who came in to see him, was astonished when Mike said, “This thing, of course, has made me think a lot about Harry and Scotty Bowman and I can’t help wondering now why Scotty didn’t open his mouth at the trial. I know he didn’t have to. But I mean, did he want to? Why didn’t he want to?”

  When he went to Ouimet’s office next day to pay him, he asked him how well he knew Scotty Bowman. Until Bowman came into his office, Ouimet said, he knew nothing about him. All he knew about the fraudulent loan was what Bowman had told him. If it had been necessary to put Bowman in the stand he would have done so, he said, but Bowman had told him he preferred not to open his mouth at all. Bowman might have had a very shrewd head, Ouimet said dryly, but if that were the case it turned out that he also had a shamef
ully weak heart.

  All week business picked up, and all month; Mike realized that he was becoming more solidly established, being greeted with great and friendly sympathy wherever he went, and he willingly talked about Harry Lane. He could go everywhere; that is, everywhere but Dorfman’s, for while Alfred was alive, of course, he could never go there. He found a new place down the street on the other side with murals depicting scenes from Paris life and the place caught on with the high-class customers. His celebrity and quiet reserve soon gave him a following. He accepted the public sympathy with a lonely dignity.

  More and more often he would begin a discussion about Harry Lane. He would liked to have talked to Mollie Morris but she had done what she thought Harry should have done; she had fled to Paris and nobody knew when she planned to return. Mike had a persuasive manner of beginning a discussion about Harry’s case. “You know I was Scotty’s friend,” he used to say, “but if you have a friend you don’t stop to ask what’s going on in his mind. If a man says nothing, you naturally supply the answers. More and more from this distance I wonder why Scotty let people draw their own conclusions. That’s what he did in court, you know.” He was listened to with respect because he had proved he had no prejudice in favor of Harry.

  Business continued, he was getting a better class of trade, but now he had no desire at all to be president of the local businessmen’s association, to be an alderman, or ever to be appointed to any public office. Everybody still called him Mike the Scholar, and wherever he was he never missed a chance to put a doubt in the minds of people about the rightness of their judgment of Harry Lane.

  It had taken a little time but Harry had finally found a tireless advocate who had won the right to be listened to with respect.

  Dates of Original Publication

  The Red Hat, The New Yorker, October 1931

  Timothy Harshaw’s Flute, The New Yorker, February 1934

  A Regret for Youth, Scribner’s Magazine, July 1928