The Complete Stories of Morley Callaghan - Volume Two

by Morley Callaghan

  Flora had been downtown shopping and was walking along the cinder path with Mrs. McGuin when she heard the dog squealing. She was sure Bill was beating Mike. Mrs. McGuin was prepared to stand at the gate for a long chat, but Flora left her and hurried into the house.

  Bill was sitting in the kitchen, bending forward, staring intently at the dog crawling toward him on its belly. The dog was very scared and she watched its tail. She did not speak; she stood rigidly in the hall. Bill tapped the dog gently on the head; its tail wagged slightly, its eyes on Bill’s face.

  “Have you been beating that dog?” Flora said suddenly.

  He looked up pleasantly and said: “Of course I haven’t, Flora. Keep your shirt on.” Then he went on staring at the dog.

  “Well, I think you’re a bit loony, do you hear?”

  “Loony! I should say not.”

  “Well, don’t hit that dog again. Someone needs to give you a good whack for what ails you.”

  He laughed easily and stroked the dog’s back. Mike got up, turning his head to Flora and watching Bill alertly. Flora looked around the room and then at Bill and the dog, and went upstairs to change her dress. Bill picked up Mike and sat near the back window.

  She had taken off her dress and put on a skirt and was holding a blouse in her hand while she tightened the string at the neck of her shirt when she heard Mike yelp twice. Scared, she hurried downstairs. The dog yelped again when she was at the kitchen door. Bill, the dog in his arms, was looking out the window, the fingers of his right hand stroking Mike’s ear. Absentmindedly he twisted the ear, without turning his head from the window. The dog squirmed, but Bill held it and stroked the ear again. Flora snatched the dog from his arms and slapped him across the face.

  “You great big bully! You great big fool!” she said.

  Rubbing his face, he got up. She expected him to grab hold of her savagely and shake her till she cried out and she stood in front of him, waiting. He said awkwardly: “Haven’t you got more sense than to do a thing like that?”

  She began to cry and turned away and left the kitchen. In the front room she sat on the sofa, the dog still under her arm. Still crying, she stroked the fur on the dog’s back, talking nonsense to it.

  Then she pushed the dog away from her and yelled out suddenly: “I’m going to go away. I’m going to go up to the farm to my own people. I’m not going to hang around here with a loon like you.”

  From the kitchen he answered quietly: “Now don’t be silly, Flora.”

  She sat alone in the front room and made a plan for seeing a doctor. The dog went to sleep at her feet. Bill might be very sick from not eating, but if she went to see a doctor about him all the neighbors would talk. “I guess they’re talking anyway,” she thought. Someone in the town ought to be able to persuade him to take a long rest and eat hearty meals.

  6

  The first week in September she saw Pete three times. The meetings were casual and unimportant, though they talked intimately and he suggested he should come and see her some night when Bill was away. To herself she admitted that she didn’t love Bill now, but hesitated to be too generous with Pete; and always, after thinking of it, was angry at herself for being afraid of her own thoughts, because she knew she wanted Pete to make love to her. Talking to Pete so intimately made her feel embarrassed and afraid, and disgusted with herself for not encouraging him.

  A boat was in the dry dock and many men in town got work. Flora had to take money out of the bank for daily expenses. Mrs. Fulton was in good humor; her husband made so much money as a riveter. Flora had a rose bush that bloomed late; two white roses were full-blown and there were three buds.

  The night Pete was to come into the house she talked agreeably to Bill, anxious to find out where he was going and if he would be home early. Words came easily to her, though she felt that his face had become pinched and ugly. He did not know where he was going, or when he would return, and thought it was unimportant anyway.

  She drew down the window shade as soon as he left the house. The window of the front room faced out to the open field across the road. When it got dark Pete would stand somewhere in the field, watching the front window, waiting till she lowered the shade. The light was not lit at the corner, but it was almost dark in the house; so she lit a lamp, placed it on a small table by the window, and sat down on the sofa. Every small sound outside the house aroused her and her heart beat heavily. Her hands got very cold suddenly and she rubbed the palms together then held them tightly between her knees. Twice she got up and peeked out the window, astonished that it was getting dark so slowly. She could see across the field to the tracks. Down the road a girl was trying to yodel and farther away another girl’s voice yoo-hooed an answer.

  She felt that he would not come and was at first glad and then indignant. Someone tapped lightly on the front door and she could hardly get her breath. Again he tapped and she decided to open the door two or three inches and tell him hurriedly to go away at once; and tiptoeing in the hall she opened the door, but he came in before she could think of anything to say. They stood in the hall and he kissed her quickly and she whispered: “Don’t, Pete. You got to stop.” He laughed too loudly and she said: “Sh, sh, sh, sh”; so he said: “Well, we can’t stand here.”

  “Come into the kitchen.”

  His heavy boots squeaked, walking along the hall. The squeak terrified her.

  “You better sit down quick, Pete.”

  He sat on the kitchen chair at the end of the table.

  “Are we just going to stay here?” he asked, disappointed.

  “Come on. Come a little closer. I’m not going to bite you. Sit on my knee at least. Don’t stand there leaning against the table.”

  “Maybe it would be better to go into the front room to the sofa,” she said, pleased to have thought of something to do immediately. “Only you’d better take off your boots.”

  He grinned, bending down. “That’ll be real home-like.” His fingers worked at the knots in the laces. His fingers were thick and strong. He had one shoe off when she said suddenly: “Kiss me, Pete.”

  “Sure,” he said, without straightening up. “But now I got the boots off, I’ll tie the laces together so if I have to go quick I can just link them over my arm.” He stood up to kiss her, and she noticed a small hole in the heel of his sock. He kissed roughly till she couldn’t hold her breath any longer and felt weak. She had become helpless so easily that she tried to conceal it from him and led the way into the front room, walking slowly and evenly on her tiptoes, without looking back, as though concentrating on surprising someone in the front room.

  They sat down awkwardly on the sofa and he took her face in his hands and kissed her. She held on to him and he kept kissing her till she no longer cared what happened. All the time he talked quietly and confidently. “You don’t want to stick around here, Flora; let’s you and me get out of here.”

  “There’s no place to go.”

  “Sure, there’s all kinds of places. I’d like to go up the lakes fishin’, sleepin’ most of the time. It’s great when you get used to it. It’s great in the early morning when it’s cool and only a little sun. That’s when you feel good.”

  “I’ll come, Pete.”

  “I knew you would.”

  “I’ll come; it’ll be great in the early morning.”

  “There’s nothin’ at all for a lively kid like you around here.”

  “I know it, I know it. But don’t let’s talk any more, Pete; not right now.”

  She closed her eyes, relaxing her whole body. Her eyes opened. She heard a footstep on the veranda. Then she heard the front door moving on the hinges. She thought of jumping up, but could not move her arms or legs. Pete stood up, his head moving twice in a half-circle, and then Bill came into the room. He stood at the door, blinking his eyes, rubbing his bearded cheek with his left hand.

  “Hello, Flora,” he said.

  “Hello, Bill.”

  Still leaning against the do
or post he said mildly: “I don’t like this guy, Flora. I never did.”

  He had no collar on and had not shaved for five days. Short black hair on his face made his lips appear redder. The hair on his cheek bothered him and he kept rubbing it with his left hand. Then he saw Pete’s boots on the carpet, the laces tied together. Pete, who had been staring at him, scratched his head clumsily and slowly bent down to pick them up. Grinning, Bill pointed at Pete’s stockinged feet, then jerked his head back. His head jerked back three times, but always looking at Flora. She was bewildered and could not speak. Bill spun around sharply and ran along the hall and out the front door. His feet only touched the steps once, and she heard him running down the path.

  In her mind she could still hear him running when she said to Pete: “You better go home.”

  “Maybe I’d better,” he said uneasily.

  “Hurry, Pete, go on home.”

  “Well, I got to put my boots on.”

  “No, go on, hurry.”

  He hung the boots over his arm. At the front door he said lamely: “Listen, Flora, listen; I meant it about the fishin’ trip.”

  “Hurry, Pete, please hurry.”

  She put both hands on his shoulder, pushed him, and closed the front door. In the kitchen she sat down, leaning on the table, and had no thoughts, just a heavy, uneasy feeling making it hard for her to find a comfortable position. A noise in the backyard frightened her and she got up quickly to open the back door. Three cats ran along the fence. She sat down again expecting to have many thoughts and ready to cry, but no thoughts came to her and she couldn’t cry. Suddenly she became so frightened she hardly dared breathe. She had been waiting for Bill to come back, and, moaning softly, she felt now that he wouldn’t come back. “He’s apt to do something the way he’s feeling and running around,” she thought. “He’s apt to hurt himself, or do any old thing.”

  Quietly she got up and half-stumbled into the front room and looked around vaguely, then blew out the light. Alone in the dark she felt better, hidden from uneasy thoughts, and in the chair she rocked back and forth, a board squeaking regularly, the noise gradually holding all of her attention, the squeak louder every time, she thought. Rocking slower, she hoped to get over the board unexpectedly, but the creak abruptly startled her. “If I hear that squeak again, I’ll go crazy,” she thought, but wouldn’t get up. It was time for her to become serious and think clearly. As soon as she attempted to organize her thoughts she jumped up muttering: “I’m not going to stay in here; that’s one thing I’m not going to do.”

  Her legs felt stronger going into the kitchen. She blew out the kitchen lamp. In the hall she took her spring coat from the rack, fumbling with a button on the sleeve with one hand while she opened the front door. A light breeze had come up, blowing from the bay, and her forehead, sweating, got cold. The breeze carried the smell of fresh paint and she tried to remember which one of the neighbors was painting his house, and slowly walked to the gate and turned along the cinder path, heading for Bill’s mother’s place, because that was where he would go if intending to stay away all night. She began to walk rapidly with a short, quick stride, the coat hanging over her right arm. Once she looked back at the house and across the field at the station lights. Her heels crunched in the cinders. At the corner, near the light, she hesitated, then began to run, her coat hanging loosely over her arm, flapping against her leg, and she wondered why she was carrying it.

  Old Mrs. Lawson lived on the other side of the town. Flora turned south as far as the old rough-cast house with the broken windows and tall weeds all around it. A shortcut was a path across a field behind the rough-cast house. The field was used for cow pasturage, and wagon wheels had marked a path. A clump of cedars at the edge of the field behind the house was a tall dark shadow, and nervously she decided to avoid the path and go the longer way around the corner.

  No one was in sight on the street and she was glad. The moon was full — it was about eleven o’clock. She hurried past the rough-cast house, because no one had lived there for years and the windows were dark blotches in the moonlight. A negro family had once quarreled in the house and everybody knew the story. The moon shone on the walls and the roof looked very black. A cement sidewalk ran from the corner up the slope of the hill and her footfalls sounded so loud on it she started to run.

  At the top of the slope she saw the frame cottage with no lights in it, close to the edge of the sidewalk. She rapped on the door, heard no sound and knew Bill had not been there. Again she rapped loudly and someone moved in the front bedroom with the open window, facing the street.

  The old lady’s voice said: “Who’s there?”

  “It’s me, Flora.”

  “It’s a funny time of night. Is something the matter?”

  “It’s about Bill.”

  “Just a minute.”

  A match-flame wavered. Through the window she saw the old woman bending over the dresser, one hand holding the lampshade. The lamplight was dim, but she turned up the wick and came to the door in her nightgown.

  “I just wanted to know if Bill came here.”

  “Came here when?”

  “About half an hour ago.”

  “Then he didn’t stir me out of my bed if he did. Why in the name of misery would he come here?”

  The lamp smoked in the breeze. The shade got dark at the top, so the old woman said they had better sit in the front room. When they were sitting down the old lady, tapping her chest with the tips of her fingers said bluntly: “Now, what’s the matter?”

  “I don’t know. He ran out of the house a half-hour ago. He was acting funny. He was acting funny before, but this time something was botherin’ him.”

  “I don’t know what’s got into him. Somethin’s got into him and it’s taking his heart and head away.”

  “He’s been worryin’ me.”

  “And he’s been worryin’ me.”

  Flora imagined the old woman was peering at her and became uncomfortable. “You ought to put a shawl around you,” she said.

  “What happened tonight that bothered you so?”

  “I’m just afeared of him.”

  “Afeared of Bill?”

  “I just said I was afeared of him. But I thought he was here and I must be going.”

  She got up and went out, not hearing what the old woman said to her. On the sidewalk she looked up and down the street and began to walk rapidly, the coat on her arm swinging with her stride. Halfway down the slope she started to run, and took the shortcut across the field behind the old rough-cast house.

  7

  Halfway across the field, close to the cedars, she stumbled, her heel caught in a hole from a cow’s hoof. She was on her knees in the grass and aware of shadows, trees, and the field. Calmly, without getting up, she looked around. Night noises from the trees did not frighten her. She was looking for Bill, and he might have come across this path, or be lying down underneath a tree; so she got up and moved forward cautiously, peering underneath trees on the fringe of the bush. A twig cracked; she turned abruptly, listening; “Oh, Bill,” she called softly, but there was no sound. Farther back in the bush, another twig cracked, and she walked away from the trees and stood uncertainly on the wagon track. Accustomed to the darkness, she made out a fence, cow dung on the path, and a few yards away the back door hanging by one hinge on the old house. Trees and shadows did not worry her but she backed away from the house, moving backward slowly, certain at each step Bill was in the old house. Suddenly she stood still and looked up at the clear stars, and, clinching her fists, walked determinedly toward the house. At the back steps, her thoughts got mixed up. She called out softly, so her voice would carry into the house: “Oh, Bill, it’s me, Flora.” The sound of her voice made her lonely and she put one hand over her eyes so she wouldn’t see the house; then began to run across the field toward the street. She found thoughts as her feet went down steadily on firm ground. “Even if he went in the old house I ought to look every place else fi
rst.” On the street again she became calmer, slowing down to a walk, and decided to go to the station. He might be dozing in the waiting room, or even waiting for a train. Far away she heard the hooting of an engine whistle and knew that if Bill were at the station, waiting for the train, it would be there in a few minutes. She ran, her mouth open, trying to suck in long breaths of air. She was almost opposite her own house; no lights in the windows, no lights in any house along the street; all the town was quiet; no leaves moved. On the path in the field by the water tower she looked back and was glad no lights were in the houses, for the moonlight alone was better for her thoughts. Every object was distinct. The rushes near the small pond skirted by the path swayed, and crick-ets made the same noises she heard every night, sitting on the veranda. The surface of the tracks shone in the moonlight. She crossed the tracks to the platform. She heard the telegrapher ticking at his instruments, but no one was on the platform. Timidly she walked toward the waiting room, tiptoeing on the platform, two trucks between her and the telegrapher’s window. Her hand, on the knob of the waiting-room door, trembled as she pushed gently, holding her breath, peeking in as more of the room was revealed. Just the shiny benches around the room, cigarette butts near the end of the bench, the cold stove in the center of the floor. She tossed her coat on a bench and bent down over the cigarette butts. Bill often smoked cigarettes, and she picked up a butt, sniffing cautiously, but could recognize only a tobacco odor. She picked up three butts but they all smelled alike, and one had a cork tip, and she had never seen him smoking cork-tipped cigarettes. Her legs began to feel tired and she sat down holding her lower lip with her teeth so it wouldn’t tremble. The engine whistle sounded much louder, coming around the bend. Eagerly she got up and stood at the waiting-room door, where she could see along the platform. No one on the platform. The headlight on the engine swung around the bend, the bell clanging, the light getting larger and more dazzling till it was directly upon her, then gone completely beyond her, the bell still clanging, the light on the last coach getting very small as the whistle sounded mournfully a last time. Puzzled she stepped out to the platform, sure there had been some mistake, and standing there became very indignant and angry that the train hadn’t stopped. She walked along to the telegraph office and peered at the man through the open windows. He was in his shirt-sleeves, a green shade over his eyes, the string on the shade making his hair at the front stand on end.