Ancient Lineage and Other Stories

by Morley Callaghan

  “If you took another job, you and your wife could probably go fishing together,” Michael suggested.

  “I don’t know about that. We sometimes go fishing together anyway.” He looked away, waiting for Michael to be repelled and insist that he ought to give up the job. And he wasn’t ashamed as he looked down at the water, but he knew Michael thought he ought to be ashamed. “Somebody’s got to do my job. There’s got to be a hangman,” he said.

  “I just meant that if it was such disagreeable work, Smitty.”

  The little man did not answer for a long time. Michael rowed steadily with sweeping, tireless strokes. Huddled at the end of the boat, Smitty suddenly looked up with a kind of melancholy hopelessness and said mildly, “The job hasn’t been so disagreeable.”

  “Good God, man, you don’t mean you like it?”

  “Oh, no,” he said, to be obliging, as if he knew what Michael expected him to say. “I mean you get used to it, that’s all.” But he looked down again at the water, knowing he ought to be ashamed of himself.

  “Have you got any children?”

  “I sure have. Five. The oldest boy is fourteen. It’s funny, but they’re all a lot bigger and taller than I am. Isn’t that funny?”

  They started a conversation about fishing rivers that ran into the lake farther north. They felt friendly again. The little man, who had an extraordinary gift for storytelling, made many quaint faces, puckered up his lips, screwed up his eyes and moved around restlessly as if he wanted to get up in the boat and stride around for the sake of more expression. Again he brought out the whiskey flask and Michael stopped rowing. Grinning, they toasted each other and said together, “Happy days.” The boat remained motionless on the placid water. Far out, the sun’s last rays gleamed on the waterline. And then it got dark and they could only see the town lights. It was time to turn around and pull for the shore. The little man tried to take the oars from Michael, who shook his head resolutely and insisted that he would prefer to have his friend catch a fish on the way back to the shore.

  “It’s too late now, and we have scared all the fish away,” Smitty laughed happily. “But we’re having a grand time, aren’t we?”

  When they reached the old pier by the powerhouse, it was full night and they hadn’t caught a single fish. As the boat bumped against the rocks Michael said, “You can get out here, I’ll take the boat around to Smollet’s.”

  “Won’t you be coming my way?”

  “Not just now. I’ll probably talk with Smollet a while.”

  The little man got out of the boat and stood on the pier looking down at Michael. “I was thinking dawn would be the best time to catch some fish,” he said. “At about five o’clock. I’ll have an hour and a half to spare anyway. How would you like that?” He was speaking with so much eagerness that Michael found himself saying, “I could try. But if I’m not here at dawn, you go on without me.”

  “All right. I’ll go back to the hotel now.”

  “Good night, Smitty.”

  “Good night, Michael. We had a fine neighborly time, didn’t we?”

  As Michael rowed the boat around to the boathouse, he hoped that Smitty wouldn’t realize he didn’t want to be seen walking back to town with him. And later, when he was going along the dusty road in the dark and hearing all the crickets chirping in the ditches, he couldn’t figure out why he felt so ashamed of himself.

  At seven o’clock next morning Thomas Delaney was hanged in the town jail yard. There was hardly a breeze on that leaden gray morning and there were no small whitecaps out over the lake. It would have been a fine morning for fishing. Michael went down to the jail, for he thought it his duty as a newspaperman to have all the facts, but he was afraid he might get sick. He hardly spoke to all the men and women who were crowded under the maple trees by the jail wall. Everybody he knew was staring at the wall and muttering angrily. Two of Thomas Delaney’s brothers, big, strapping fellows with bearded faces, were there on the sidewalk. Three automobiles were at the front of the jail.

  Michael, the town newspaperman, was admitted into the courtyard by old Willie Mathews, one of the guards, who said that two newspapermen from the city were at the gallows on the other side of the building. “I guess you can go around there too, if you want to,” Mathews said, as he sat down on the step. White-faced, and afraid, Michael sat down on the step with Mathews and they waited and said nothing.

  At last the old fellow said, “Those people outside there are pretty sore, ain’t they?”

  “They’re pretty sullen, all right. I saw two of Delaney’s brothers there.”

  “I wish they’d go,” Mathews said. “I don’t want to see anything. I didn’t even look at Delaney. I don’t want to hear anything. I’m sick.” He put his head against the wall and closed his eyes.

  The old fellow and Michael sat close together till a small procession came around the corner from the other side of the yard. First came Mr. Steadman, the sheriff, with his head down as though he were crying, then Dr. Parker, the physician, then two hard-looking young newspapermen from the city, walking with their hats on the backs of their heads, and behind them came the little hangman, erect, stepping out with military precision and carrying himself with a strange cocky dignity. He was dressed in a long black cut-away coat with gray striped trousers, a gates-ajar collar and a narrow red tie, as if he alone felt the formal importance of the occasion. He walked with brusque precision until he saw Michael, who was standing up, staring at him with his mouth open.

  The little hangman grinned and as soon as the procession reached the doorstep, he shook hands with Michael. They were all looking at Michael. As though his work was over now, the hangman said eagerly to Michael, “I thought I’d see you here. You didn’t get down to the pier at dawn?”

  “No. I couldn’t make it.”

  “That was tough, Michael. I looked for you,” he said. “But never mind. I’ve got something for you.” As they all went into the jail, Dr. Parker glanced angrily at Michael, then turned his back on him. In the office, where the doctor prepared to sign the certificate, Smitty was bending down over his fishing basket, which was in the corner. Then he pulled out two good-sized trout, folded in newspaper, and said, “I was saving these for you, Michael. I got four in an hour’s fishing.” Then he said, “I’ll talk about that later if you’ll wait. We’ll be busy here, and I’ve got to change my clothes.”

  Michael went out to the street with Dr. Parker and the two city newspapermen. Under his arm he was carrying the fish, folded in the newspaper. Outside, at the jail door, Michael thought that the doctor and the two newspapermen were standing a little apart from him. Then the crowd, with their clothes all dust-soiled from the road, surged forward and the doctor said to them, “You might as well go home, boys. It’s all over.”

  “Where’s old Steadman?” somebody demanded.

  “We’ll wait for the hangman,” somebody else shouted.

  The doctor walked away by himself. For a while Michael stood beside the two city newspapermen, and tried to look as nonchalant as they were looking, but he lost confidence in them when he smelled whiskey. They only talked to each other. Then they mingled with the crowd, and Michael stood alone. At last he could stand there no longer looking at all those people he knew so well, so he, too, moved out and joined the crowd.

  When the sheriff came out with the hangman and the guards, they got halfway down to one of the automobile before someone threw an old boot. Steadman ducked into one of the cars, as the boot hit him on the shoulder, and the two guards followed him. The hangman, dismayed, stood alone on the sidewalk. Those in the car must have thought at first that the hangman was with them for the car suddenly shot forward, leaving him alone on the sidewalk. The crowd threw small rocks and sticks, hooting at him as the automobile backed up slowly towards him. One small stone hit him on the head. Blood trickled from the side of his head as he looked around helplessly at all the angry people. He had the same expression on his face, Michael thought, as he
had had last night when he had seemed ashamed and had looked down at the water. Only now, he looked around wildly, looking for someone to help him as the crowd kept pelting him. Farther and farther Michael backed into the crowd and all the time he felt dreadfully ashamed as though he were betraying Smitty, who last night had had such a good neighborly time with him. “It’s different now, it’s different,” he kept thinking, as he held the fish in the newspaper tight under his arm. Smitty started to run toward the automobile, but James Mortimer, a big fisherman, shot out his foot and tripped him and sent him sprawling on his face.

  Looking for something to throw, the fisherman said to Michael, “Sock him, sock him.”

  Michael shook his head and felt sick.

  “What’s the matter with you, Michael?”

  “Nothing. I got nothing against him.”

  The big fisherman started pounding his fists up and down in the air. “He just doesn’t mean anything to me at all,” Michael said quickly. The fisherman, bending down, kicked a small rock loose from the roadbed and heaved it at the hangman. Then he said, “What are you holding there, Michael, what’s under your arm? Fish? Pitch them at him. Here, give them to me.” Still in a fury, he snatched the fish, and threw them one at a time at the little man just as he was getting up from the road. The fish fell in the thick dust in front of him, sending up a little cloud. Smitty seemed to stare at the fish with his mouth hanging open, then he didn’t even look at the crowd. That expression on Smitty’s face as he saw the fish in the road made Michael hot with shame and he tried to get out of the crowd.

  Smitty had his hands over his head, to shield his face as the crowd pelted him, yelling, “Sock the little rat! Throw the runt in the lake!” The sheriff pulled him into the automobile. The car shot forward in a cloud of dust.

  1934

  ONE SPRING NIGHT

  They had been to an eleven-o’clock movie. Afterward, as they sat very late in the restaurant, Sheila was listening to Bob Davis, liking all the words he used and showing by the quiet gladness that kept coming into her face the deep enjoyment she felt in being with him. She was the young sister of his friend, Jack Staples. Every time Bob had been at their apartment, she had come into the room, they had laughed and joked with her, they had teased her about the new way she wore her clothes, watching her growing, and she had always smiled and answered them in a slow, measured way.

  Bob had taken her out a few times when he had felt like having some girl to talk to who knew him and liked him. And tonight he was leaning back good-humoredly, telling her one thing and then another with the wise self-assurance he usually had when with her; but gradually, as he watched her, he found himself talking more slowly, his voice grew serious and much softer, and then finally he leaned across the table toward her as though he had just discovered that her neck was full and soft with her spring coat thrown open, and that her face under her little black straw hat tilted back on her head had a new, eager beauty. Her warm, smiling softness was so close to him that he smiled a bit shyly.

  “What are you looking at, Bob?” she said.

  “What is there about you that seems different tonight?” he said, and they both began to laugh lightly, as if sharing the same secret.

  When they were outside, walking along arm in arm and liking the new spring night air, Sheila said quickly, “It’s awfully nice out tonight. Let’s keep walking a while, Bob,” and she held his arm as though very sure of him.

  “All right,” he said. “We’ll walk till we get so tired we’ll have to sit on the curb. It’s nearly two o’clock, but it doesn’t seem to matter much, does it?”

  Every step he took with Sheila leaning on his arm in this new way, and with him feeling now that she was a woman he hardly knew, made the excitement grow in him, and yet he was uneasy. He was much taller than Sheila and he kept looking down at her, and she always smiled back with frank gladness. Then he couldn’t help squeezing her arm tight, and he started to talk recklessly about anything that came into his head, swinging his free arm and putting passionate eloquence into the simplest words. She was listening as she used to listen when he talked with her brother and father in the evenings, only now she wanted him to see how much she liked having it tonight all for herself. Almost pleading, she said, “Are you having a good time, Bob? Don’t you like the streets at night, when there’s hardly anybody on them?”

  They stopped and looked along the wide avenue and up the towering, slanting faces of the buildings to the patches of night sky. Holding out her small, gloved hand in his palm, he patted it with his other hand, and they both laughed as though he had done something foolish but charming. The whole city was quieter now, the streets flowed away from them without direction, but there was always the hum underneath the silence like something restless and stirring and really touching them, as the soft, spring night air of the streets touched them, and at a store door he pulled her into the shadow and kissed her warmly, and when she didn’t resist he kept on kissing her. Then they walked on again happily. He didn’t care what he talked about; he talked about the advertising agency where he had gone to work the year before, and what he planned to do when he got more money, and each word had a feeling of reckless elation behind it.

  For a long time, they walked on aimlessly like this before he noticed that she was limping. Her face kept on turning up to him, and she laughed often, but she was really limping badly. “What’s the matter, Sheila? What’s the matter with your foot?” he said.

  “It’s my heel,” she said, lifting her foot off the ground. “My shoe has been rubbing against it.” She tried to laugh. “It’s all right, Bob,” she said, and she tried to walk on without limping.

  “You can’t walk like that, Sheila.”

  “Maybe if we just took it off a minute, Bob, it would be all right,” she said as though asking a favor of him.

  “I’ll take it off for you,” he said, and he knelt down on one knee while she lifted her foot and balanced herself with her arm on his shoulder. He drew the shoe off gently.

  “Oh, the air feels so nice and cool on my heel,” she said. No one was coming along the street. For a long time he remained kneeling, caressing her ankle gently and looking up with his face full of concern. “Try and put it on now, Bob,” she said. But when he pushed the shoe over her heel, she said, “Good heavens, it seems tighter than ever.” She limped along for a few steps. “Maybe we should never have taken it off. There’s a blister there,” she said.

  “It was crazy to keep walking like this,” he said. “I’ll call a taxi as soon as one comes along.” They were standing by the curb, with her leaning heavily on his arm, and he was feeling protective and considerate, for with her heel hurting her, she seemed more like the young girl he had known. “Look how late it is. It’s nearly four o’clock,” he said. “Your father will be wild.”

  “It’s terribly late,” she said.

  “It’s my fault. I’ll tell him it was all my fault.”

  For a while she didn’t raise her head. When she did look up at him, he thought she was frightened. She was hardly able to move her lips. “What will they say when I go home at this hour, Bob?”

  “It’ll be all right. I’ll go right in with you,” he said.

  “Wouldn’t it be better … Don’t you think it would be all right if I stayed the night with Alice – with my girl friend?”

  She was so hesitant that it worried him, and he said emphatically, “It’s nearly morning now, and anyway, your father knows you’re with me.”

  “Where’ll we say we’ve been till this hour, Bob?”

  “Just walking.”

  “Maybe he won’t believe it. Maybe he’s sure by this time I’m staying with Alice. If there was some place I could go …” While she waited for him to answer, all that had been growing in her for such a long time was showing in the softness of her dark, eager face.

  There was a breathless excitement in him and something like a slow unfolding that was all lost in guilty uneasiness. Then a half-as
hamed feeling began to come over him and he began thinking of himself at the apartment, talking with Jack and the old man, and with Sheila coming in and listening with her eager face full of seriousness. “Why should you think there’ll be trouble?” he said. “Your father will probably be in bed.”

  “I guess he will,” she said quickly. “I’m silly. I ought to know that. There was nothing … I must have sounded silly.” She began to fumble for words, and then her confusion was so deep that she could not speak.

  “I’m surprised you don’t know your father better than that,” he said rapidly, as though offended. He was anxious to make it an argument between them over her father. He wanted to believe this himself, so he tried to think only of the nights when her father, with his white head and moustaches, had talked in his good-humored way about the old days in New York and the old eating places, but every one of these conversations, every one of these nights that came into his thoughts, had Sheila there, too, listening and watching. Then it got so that he could remember nothing of those times but her intense young face, which kept rising before him, although he had never been aware that he had paid much attention to her. So he said desperately, “There’s the friendliest feeling in the world between your people and me. Leave it to me. We’ll go back to the corner, where we can see a taxi.”

  They began to walk slowly to the corner, with her still limping though he held her arm firmly. He began to talk with a soft persuasiveness, eager to have her respond readily, but she only said, “I don’t know what’s the matter. I feel tired or something.” When they were standing on the street corner, she began to cry a little. “Poor little Sheila,” he said.

  Then she said angrily, “Why ‘poor little Sheila’? There’s nothing the matter with me. I’m just tired.” And they both kept looking up and down the street for a taxi.

  Then one came, they got in, and he sat with his arm along the back of the seat, just touching her shoulder. He dared not tighten his arm around her, though never before had he wanted so much to be gentle with anyone; but with the street lights sometimes flashing on her face and showing the frightened, bewildered whiteness that was in it, he was scared to disturb her. His heart began to beat with slow heaviness and he was glad when the ride was over.