A Tender Victory

by Taylor Caldwell

  Merrill, after several weeks, told his wife that he “wasn’t goin’ to stay in this damn hospital no longer,” and he went home and to bed. Oh, sometimes he’d get up and go and play cards with the boys, and have a beer, but he couldn’t work. Back too bad. So he went to a doctor and had X rays, and here they was, right there on the chief’s desk, and the doctor’s report.

  Dr. McManus held out his hand for the X rays. He studied them intently. He looked at Mrs. Gandy, then muttered, “Well, they’re the discs all right, but not too bad. Seen worse in men working every day. Couldn’t give him too much trouble, except every once in a while, and then he could sleep on the floor a few nights, and take some aspirin, and get right up again. But that’s not the trouble. Look here at these big shadows.” He held out the X rays to Johnny. He whispered, “Cancer. Of long standing. The man’s dying, and it’s not near the spine at all, and had nothing to do with it.”

  Mrs. Gandy demanded loudly, “What you whisperin’ about? Can’t you read X rays? Tryin’ to cook up something against Merrill?”

  Dr. McManus said gravely, “Madam, I agree with you that your husband is desperately sick, and I agree with you that he hasn’t long to live.”

  Her face changed, then she began to cry. “I don’t care for nothin’ but Merrill. And they did that to him and they won’t give him a cent compensation, and they won’t give me nothin’ either, when Merrill’s dead.”

  “Does your husband cough much and complain of pains in his chest?” asked the doctor, with real concern. The woman nodded her head so vigorously that the cheap velvet hat wobbled. “He sure does. All the time. Coughs up blood, sometimes. It’s those discs.”

  The doctor said, “I’d advise you to send your husband back to the veterans’ hospital immediately. He hasn’t very long to live, I’m afraid.”

  The dreary story continued. Merrill began to hate the Veterans Administration “for bein’ so mean to him, and not giving him no compensation after the Army hurt him, and me havin’ to work all the time in the bakery, and gettin’ only fifty-five dollars a week. If Merrill’d been a rich guy with a lot of pull, he’d have got compensation fast enough! Why, there was fellers holdin’ down big jobs and gettin’ big compensation, right there in Merrill’s plant!” Johnny looked at the blubbery and shaking face, and the tears, and his heart softened in pity. But he hardened it almost at once. “It was all sassiety’s fault,” said Mrs. Gandy. “The rich guys with their big, shiny new cars—they don’t want the little feller to have anythin’. No, nothin’.” And so Merrill, who had not been injured in the Army at all, and who was dying of cancer, began to hate some amorphous and nonexistent thing as “society.” He wouldn’t stay in bed at home, but went out for beer and cards while his wife worked—and hated. The boys talked, and the hate grew. Somebody gave Merrill a copy of a Communist newspaper. Merrill devoured it, believed it. It was a conspiracy against him, on the part of sassiety, a conspiracy directed against all the drab and hopeless people in the world, especially Merrill.

  “He got so he couldn’t talk about nothin’ else,” said Mrs. Gandy, wiping her eyes with a trembling hand. “And it sure is true. And Merrill got to goin’ to meetings and listening to people tellin’ him how people like us ain’t got a right to live, the rich guys say. And how someday there’ll be a change, and the rich guys’ll get what they got comin’ and we’ll have somethin’ and Merrill will have a chanceta—”

  The sergeant read on. He read the sordid story of ignorant and guided hatred. Merrill met “a man.” Never did find out his name. Met him in a beer joint. But he was a good man. He gave Merrill twenty-five dollars, “just because Merrill’s a little guy and a victim of sassiety,” said Mrs. Gandy. Merrill kept going back to the veterans’ hospital to see if they’d found anything, and the doctors begged him to stay. But he wouldn’t. He’d read in the Communist paper that sometimes poor little guys like him was kept in them hospitals just for the doctors to try things on ’em. Like rats, was it? Or maybe the mice. Merrill wasn’t going to do any such thing, no sir.

  And then one day the kind man who was sorry for Merrill told Merrill about a minister, who was a tool of the big interests, a fascist, a rich man, in Barryfield.

  Johnny, who had been listening mournfully, sat up, and his eyes flashed with an intense blue. Dr. McManus said, “Easy now; just sit and listen.”

  Well, the kind man told Merrill a lot about Johnny, “the fascist.” He’d busted a union here in this town; he was down on the workers; he’d broken a strike. He was all for “sassiety.” Big interests, big rich guys. Why, he’d given a sermon, and he’d cursed the poor little feller, and did all kinds of terrible things, keeping the workers down. It was all in the Barryfield newspapers. He ought to have a lesson. He was a real dangerous man.

  As this part was read, Mrs. Gandy sat up in her chair and flashed Johnny a look of the purest hatred. “Sure I’m sorry about the little kid, but I sure wish you’d burned up!” she exclaimed. “That was the idea, anyway.”

  Sergeant Batson read on calmly. So the kind man had offered Merrill five hundred dollars “to do the job.” To teach the minister a lesson. The rich minister, the tool of the interests. Two hundred fifty down, two hundred fifty after the job. And then the kind man would “force” the Veterans Administration to give Merrill compensation. There was ways.

  No. Merrill never did rightly get the man’s name. Never asked, maybe. Merrill sure hated the big guys now. And people like the minister, who help them, rich fascist ministers, who get paid off with big money. Shouldn’t be allowed to live. No, Mrs. Gandy had known nothing of the plan. Merrill just told her, day before Christmas, that he had to go out of town, but would be back at night. He had bus tickets. Maybe a job, he said, coughin’ his poor lungs out. So he went away.

  And a couple of days later there was all that news in the paper. Mrs. Gandy did not connect this news with her husband, who was now “terrible sick,” and couldn’t get out of bed. He’d got a cold somewhere. No, he wouldn’t have a doctor. All caught up on doctors, who ain’t got no use for the little feller.

  And then, yesterday, Merrill had told his wife that he was dying. He loved her. He did not want her to work in the bakery any more. He had no money. But there was that big reward in the newspapers. He had told her the story. She was to go to Barryfield, to the police, tell his story, and get the reward. That would “set her up.” No use worrying about him any longer. He was dying. They couldn’t do much to him.

  The story continued. The whole idea, Merrill explained, was to get the rich fascist minister out of town, by burning his house, and showing him little guys wouldn’t stand for him. Merrill was a little surprised to see how small and mean the parsonage was, but then, people like “him” are misers, anyway. He got in through the cellar window, and waited for the family to go to bed. The minister came down in the cellar, and began to look around. He didn’t look behind the furnace, though, in the dark. Merrill sure was scared. He’d put on coal to make the furnace real hot, and then when the minister went upstairs again he stuffed the wool waste in the pipes, right near the furnace, and they were soaked with gasoline. Merrill was scared; afraid he’d burn up too. Then he thought that it would take a little while, and he’d just go upstairs himself, and look for some of the money the minister had. He didn’t find anything downstairs, and he couldn’t go up to the bedrooms. So he left the house, and he went through back yards and got away.

  That was all. The kind man met him a couple of days later and gave him the rest of his pay.

  The chief said, “I called Wilkes-Barre, and they talked to Gandy, but he’s incoherent. They took him to a hospital, and now he’s in a coma. Frankly, I think he read about the whole thing in the newspapers. There must have been a leak. The poor devil had a lot of time to think. He cooked it all up, knowing he couldn’t be tried, and that he was dying, and he wanted to leave his wife a lot of money—the reward.”

  “That’s a lie!” shouted Mrs. Gandy. “Merrill ain’t no l
iar!”

  The doctor shook his head. “It could be true, of course.”

  He looked at Johnny. The minister said unsteadily, “I think it’s true.”

  The chief sighed. “Sorry. I don’t.”

  “Oh, you don’t!” exclaimed Mrs. Gandy. “Well, sir, here’s your proof.” She opened her imitation leather purse, lifted something out, and banged it triumphantly on the desk.

  It was Lorry’s golden box, and it glimmered, and a sweet scent rose from it. They all looked at it, in a desperate silence. “That’s all he could find in your house, parson,” said Mrs. Gandy. “No money. Just this in your desk, and he took it.”

  Johnny reached for the box and held it tightly in his fingers. Now, for an instant he forgot what he had heard. He saw Lorry’s face, and he smiled inwardly with an overpowering joy. Then he put the box down and looked at Mrs. Gandy, who glared at him murderously. He studied her for a long moment or two.

  He said finally, “Yes, this is my box, and it was taken from my house, and the story is true. But there is something you should know. Your husband had no service-connected injury. He is dying of cancer, and no one knows why or how it comes.”

  “I don’t believe it,” said Mrs. Gandy weakly.

  “Yes, it is true,” said Johnny. “And it isn’t the fault of ‘society.’ No one has injured you, or your husband. The veterans’ hospital wanted Merrill to stay. They had mercy on you and on him; they didn’t tell you what they’d really found. But they were trying to help you some way.”

  He was torn with compassion for this weeping woman, and all the ignorant millions who had been deceived by the Communist murderers, and all their agony exploited.

  He went on. “I’m a poor man. I have a very small salary. I’m not the ‘tool of the interests.’ I’m nobody’s tool. I just try to serve God the best way I can. You see, I am trying to rid my town of hatred, to bring people together so they’ll love each other, and God. For that I was to be destroyed. Your husband couldn’t have known anything about me but what he was told, and what was given him to read in that Communist newspaper. He believed it, because he was suffering, and didn’t know why.”

  She looked at the compassionate blue eyes, the pain-filled face, and was silent.

  “Your husband was used, and others like him are being used, by the Communists. To enslave or kill all of us—you, me, the doctor here, and the chief of police. Everybody who stands in their wicked way. You see, we are ‘society.’ Yes, you are part of ‘society.’ Society means the people, and we are the people.”

  She stared at him, and blinked her wet eyes. He spoke with gentle authority and truth, and she believed him, though she tried to resist.

  “We are the workers, all of us, whether rich or poor,” said Johnny. “Anyone who works with his hands or his brain is a worker, whether or not he makes one thousand dollars a year or one hundred thousand dollars. The few who don’t work don’t count; they’re so very few. Do you understand?”

  She nodded, dazedly.

  “Tell me,” said Johnny, “was your husband—sorry—when he read that my little girl died because of the fire?”

  She gulped, and wiped her eyes. “Well, I remember he was terrible excited, and he said it was awful, and he got worse right away, and went down and down. He couldn’t stop talking about that little girl. We never had none of our own. He—well, he said—the man who’d done that should die, killing a baby. He couldn’t seem to rest.” She sobbed bitterly. “I think that’s really killing him now.”

  Johnny stood up. He put his hand on her shoulder. He said gently, “Forgive me for hating him. For he was ignorant and deceived by evil men. Go to him right away. And if he can hear you, tell him it’s all right, and that I’ve forgiven him too.”

  But they never found the shadowy Communist. Like his brothers, he moved in silent darkness, and watched and waited, and never slept.

  31

  It was not until the first of February that Johnny received a stunned and grieving letter from Dr. Stevens. “News from Barryfield does not seep down here to Florida,” he said in his letter, “so, dear Johnny, I did not know anything about your great sorrow until our mutual friend, and would-be elderly Mephisto, Dr. McManus, condescended to let me know a few days ago. His explanation was that he wished you to become ‘thoroughly stabilized’ before informing me, the implication being that I would rush to your assistance and comfort, if I had known earlier. That is quite true. But I consider him very highhanded in this matter, for you are like a son to me. Please convey my rebuke to him. And now, write me at once and tell me everything.” Johnny showed the letter to Dr. McManus, who said hardily, “My God, there were too many hot little hands dabbling in—everything—anyway. Why add another? As it is, I’ve had to get a dehumidifier for the house.”

  He was avidly curious to see Lorry’s twice-weekly letters, but Johnny hardheartedly locked them away with a smug air. “Do you let me see what she writes you?” he asked. “Or are you interested in romance, at your age?”

  March came in extremely mild, but not sweetly, for the smog was always present. Johnny took the children to the parsonage garden, and the trees. Because the earth was not too hard, Lon Harding had been able to plant two cherry trees for Debby. Debby was so pleased that she announced her engagement to him, to Kathy’s severe reproach. Behind the sodden garden the parsonage was rising; bricklayers were working very fast, and so were the carpenters. In June the family would move in. But the children were less interested in the house than in the trees. Johnny showed them how the buds were swelling, some pink, some still brown. “You see,” he said, “life never dies, for it comes from God.” They looked in silence at Emilie’s lilac bushes. The buds were larger here, the little branches tense. Johnny touched the shrubs with a tender hand, and Pietro, the dramatic, kissed them. No one ridiculed him; it seemed a lovely gesture.

  Debby’s kitten had become the family pet. And now two others were added, the brother of Coffee, also called Coffee, and a canary in a fine cage, both gifts of the doctor. “Place like a zoo,” he grumbled, monopolizing the pets when he came home.

  As he had never been happy before in all his life he did not recognize that he was happy now. He ascribed his anxiety to get home “early” each day as “my encroaching old age. Don’t seem to have the interest I used to have in my work. Have to leave more and more of the load to the boys.” He would scowl at Johnny. “I sure wish they’d hurry up with the parsonage so you and the kids and all those damned pets would be out of here, and a man could have some peace.” Johnny, knowing, would pat his shoulder.

  But when the doctor thought of the exodus he became heavy and weary and lonely, and he did not recognize that he dreaded the day when his house would be quiet again. He grumbled to Mrs. Burnsdale, complained that the builders were delaying too long. She smiled at him, watched his diet, and occasionally made a special dish for him to eat at night, before bedtime. “No calories to amount to anything,” she would say.

  One night Johnny said to the doctor casually, “This is a big house, and you don’t need it, and it’s outdated, and you could sell the whole thing at a profit. So why not sell it, and move in with us?” “Good God!” cried the doctor, with what he hoped was an expression of horror. “With all that menagerie? Do you think I’m out of my mind?” But Johnny saw him consulting the blueprints later, and later heard him talking to the architect, very casually, about “three or four good rooms on the third floor.”

  He became bad-tempered about the meeting Johnny had scheduled in the Town Hall. “Go, and have ’em mob you,” he growled. “I won’t be there. Hate the sight of blood.” He arrived fifteen minutes after Johnny had arrived. He was amazed to see such a gigantic crowd, filling the halls, the sides, and every available spot. Policemen watched, intently. But the crowd was almost silent. On the platform sat the mayor, Johnny, Father Krupszyk and Rabbi Chortow, and “a select delegation of citizens.” A miserable muddy light filtered through the tall old-fashioned windows,
and outside a drizzle had begun to fall. The overhead lights had been turned on, adding to the air of intense gloom. In the first rows sat the local manufacturers and their attorneys and their industrial engineers, a solid phalanx of alert and quietly resistive men, each with a brief case. The mayor was wretched. His own political county chairman had told him that his future was finished if he did not accede to the demands of the people.

  His friends had informed him that he was “done” if he did accede to the demands of the people. Money, they had told him cynically, was more important than mere votes, for, without money for the campaign next year he would lose his bid for the state Senate. Let his chairman endorse him; they, with their money, would put up a real “candidate of the people,” and this candidate would win. Voters have short memories and quick passions. They would forget, next year, that he had been instrumental in stopping the smoke nuisance. Votes? Money bought votes, through propaganda.

  They had overlooked one thing, however. The mayor was a Catholic, and there, at his right hand, sat Father John Kanty Krupszyk, whose eye was very stern. The mayor was a devout man, and of Polish descent. His wealthy backers had told him this would be a matter they would use against him for the first time.

  Dr. McManus found a spot in the rear in which to stand, and looked at the platform. Johnny seemed abstracted; the mayor rubbed his big, workman’s hands over and over; the priest was calm; the rabbi, who believed utterly in the intrinsic goodness of man, was even calmer. All of them were praying silently, even the mayor. The priest had told him earlier, when they were alone, and when the desperate mayor had wailed his fears, “You trust too much in vain, Walter, though I see you at Mass every Sunday, and you confess regularly—what confessions; you should be ashamed!—and you regularly appear for Holy Communion. What are you, a ritual, cradle Catholic? It looks like it. Why don’t you, just for once, abandon everything to God, and do your duty to Him and His children?”