The Loved and the Lost

by Morley Callaghan

  She was in front of the bureau mirror dressed in her white blouse and black skirt, her knees crossed, one foot bobbing up and down as she polished her nails. “Oh, hello, Jim,” she said. The light fell on one side of her face and touched the calf of her leg rounded out from the pressure on her knee. It might have been the light, or her sudden smile, giving her face indescribable glowing freshness, or her slow lazy greeting, but he was sure she knew how she looked; she knew a man couldn’t help wanting to reach out and feel his fingers touching her blouse and sinking into the soft flesh; she knew how provoking she was and how triumphant over all tired and aging women.

  “Well, who do you think stopped me on the street?” he asked, tossing the envelope containing the prints on the bed.

  “Someone I know?”

  “The trumpet player’s wife.”

  “Ronnie’s wife? No, you’re kidding, Jim.”

  “Just fifteen minutes ago. Right on Peel Street.”

  “Right on Peel Street,” she repeated, and then, incredulous, she put down her nail file. “Why did she stop you? Why you?”

  “I’m your friend. The woman’s worried about her husband. Is that news?” he asked sarcastically. “Oh, Peggy, for God’s sake Peggy, how can you have such a thick skin? Do you have to have your little triumph over a poor fat middle-aged woman – have a poor woman like that hating you? To be telling it to a stranger on the street—” He broke off, white-faced, for she had stood up, her hands on her hips, the corners of her eyes wrinkling with amusement.

  “I knew you could be indifferent,” he said angrily. “I didn’t think you could stand there and laugh.”

  “But I’m not laughing at poor Mrs. Wilson. I’m laughing at you.”

  “I’m used to it,” he said.

  “If you were only being honest, Jim!”

  “I’m the one who’s not being honest? That’s funny!”

  “Is it, Jim? Well, I’m not being taken in by your high moral tone,” she said. “I know you’re not really angry out of concern for Mrs. Wilson. I know why you’re sore. You’ve been humiliated. A fat coloured woman stopped you on the street. What an outrage! You, the man who’s going to do the global thinking for The Sun, a friend of the Carvers, were publicly waylaid and drawn into the love life of a fat coloured woman. And who knows who was watching? How humiliating it must have been!”

  “It was,” he said sharply. “Indeed it was.”

  “But surely you were sympathetic.”

  “I was, I hope.”

  “Of course you were. I’m sure you had a friendly chat. Real chummy. Did she seem like a sensitive soul, Jim? Would you say, for example, that she would like our Matisse?”

  “What are you driving at?”

  “You can’t tell about these Negroes,” she said. “There’s a Negro elevator man around here, and his wife likes Matisse.” She was deliberately wounding him by implying that the little world he had created for himself and her could be invaded easily. But the pain in his eyes and his resentful glance as he sat down on the bed filled her with contrition. “Jim, listen,” she said. “I don’t want Mrs. Wilson’s husband.”

  “You may say you don’t want him now—”

  “Who says I ever did want him?”

  “But if he thinks you want him—”

  “You mean, if his wife thinks I want him.”

  “She’d know if he thinks he’s not through with you.”

  “What he thinks. What she thinks. What you think. Never what I think. Well, I am concerned. How unhappy that woman must be! Of course, I’m only a scapegoat. Well, Jim,” she said firmly, “I’ll try and see that there’s no more trouble about Mrs. Wilson.”

  “You mean you’re really concerned about her?” he asked doubtfully.

  “Of course I am, Jim.”

  “But you weren’t at all concerned about what Wolgast thought of you.”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “But why? What’s the difference?”

  “I don’t care for anybody’s opinion of me. But with Mrs. Wilson – well, it’s something that goes on between her and her husband, about me. And it’s not good. I ought to do something about it.”

  “And I think you will,” he said. She had lightened his heart and he was amazed that he could have confused her indifference to the town’s opinion of her with indifference to what happened to other people. “I did feel humiliated,” he admitted. “I wanted to drive her away from you and me and having anything to say about you and me.”

  “No, you weren’t annoyed at Mrs. Wilson,” she protested, turning his hand over and moving her finger on the palm. “You’d be sympathetic, Jim. A little embarrassed, of course, and worried about me, but good-hearted enough to be concerned about Mrs. Wilson. That’s why I like you, Jim.”

  The touch of her hand was gentle, and her eyes were tender. She was confessing for the first time his importance to her; for the first time she was offering him a physical caress, and he was moved.

  “I’m worried about Mrs. Wilson,” she said. “I’ve wanted to be friendly with her, but you have to understand her, Jim. She’s one of those possessive women who make a man’s life completely intolerable. She wants every moment of her husband’s life to belong to her. A woman who can’t stand a man having a sympathetic friendship with anyone, not even another man, not even a fellow musician. If he brings a man to his apartment and seems engrossed she has to destroy that friendship. If he’s out playing cards with two of the boys she’s insanely jealous, and I think she cowers in a corner trembling until he comes home. Have you known women like that, Jim?”

  “I have,” he said uneasily, thinking of Catherine. He still wanted to argue with her but believed that if he did he would be still quarrelling as usual with her one fault, her malignant innocence. “A woman like that can be dangerous,” he insisted. “A couple of extra drinks of gin and a little brooding, and Mrs. Wilson could blow her top. Well,” he said with a sigh, “if you see it, that’s fine. I’ll leave it to you. I won’t worry about it. I see you’re going out—”

  “Yes, I’m a little late as it is,” she said, looking at her wrist watch.

  “I won’t keep you then.” He picked up his hat. “Those Matisse prints are in the envelope there. Pin them up when you get time.”

  “No,” she said, stepping out to the hall with him, “I’ll wait till you come around, Jim. We’ll do it together.” She followed him along the hall, reached for a button on his coat, and started twisting it in her fingers. “You know something, Jim—”

  “What?”

  “I’d just as soon I didn’t have a date.” She looked up, surprised by what she had said. “Oh, well, you’ll be around, won’t you?” she said, brushing aside the impulse to have him stay with her.

  “Yes.” His heart throbbed. It was the first time that she had ever admitted that she might be happier remaining with him. If he had coaxed or insisted he might have made her feel he had prevailed on her to stay with him for the evening. But he was afraid she would instinctively resist if he argued with her. “I wish you didn’t have a date,” he said, brushing his lips against her cheek. Her hand went up slowly to her cheek and she nodded. It was a secret agreement made in the dimly lit hall, and he felt happy.

  “Good night, Jim.”

  “Good night,” he said.

  He stood in the shadow of the steps, feeling exultant. It was much milder, but the weatherman had been right, more snow was falling. It fell on him in the shadow, pulling on his gloves, and on a man coming up the street. As he moved out of the shadow the man must have seen him, for he slowed down, then stopped, lit a cigarette, and turned his head, apparently shielding the lighted match. He was waiting for McAlpine to go. But he made a mistake: he began to saunter back the way he had come.

  McAlpine noticed him and strode toward him. Whoever he was, he increased his pace; he didn’t want to be recognized; it meant that he had intended to call on Peggy. It didn’t matter whether he was white or black; he was someone
intruding too quickly on that moment of understanding shared with Peggy in the hall, and McAlpine felt bitter about him.

  But Peggy wasn’t expecting a caller, she had said she was going out; and, gaining on the intruder, he thought, Maybe Mrs. Wilson sent him here to threaten her. Violent guys. No Uncle Toms. He kept his eyes on the man’s broad back, getting closer. He was sure it was someone bringing her the trouble he had always dreaded. Something about him was familiar. Twenty paces of thick falling snow screened the man from him, and he couldn’t tell whether it was Malone or Wagstaffe or Wolgast or a complete stranger. Then the man turned the corner on St. Catherine and was lost among other snow-covered figures.

  Who was it? Maybe he’ll come back, McAlpine thought. He went up the street beyond Peggy’s place, then across to a lamp post where he stood watching her door. He had forgotten to turn up his coat collar and the wet snow melted down his neck, but he watched and waited and didn’t notice it.

  In a little while Peggy came out and hurried down to St. Catherine. She vanished on the corner where the street lights shimmered behind the veil of snow. In his excited imagination all the whitened figures crossing the street down there loomed up like ghosts wandering in the world of the dead into which she had vanished, and his heart pounded, and he was sick with anxiety.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The more he thought about it the more he wondered if it was Wolgast that he had seen on the street; but in the morning he was able to forget for a while because his first column appeared in The Sun. He got the paper at his room door, and it was there at last, his own column, on the editorial page, the eighth column, under the heading “One Man’s Opinion.” There was a note to the effect that the column would appear three times a week; he was to stay on that page for some time to come. He read the column carefully, then he got dressed and went out and had another coffee and read it again and walked around feeling light and satisfied, the paper tucked in his overcoat pocket.

  His anxiety about Peggy, suppressed for the time being by his satisfaction with his work, must have contributed to his persistent excitement. At the Peel and St. Catherine newsstand he bought six copies of The Sun and went back to the hotel. He cut out a column to send to his father and one for old Higgins, the head of the History Department at the U. of T. Then Mr. Carver telephoned to congratulate him. Two or three friends at the club had praised the column, he said. It was attracting a lot of attention. Day by day it would build its own following. They congratulated each other. After the telephone conversation he took another walk, wishing he could see Foley and share his satisfaction with him.

  He went into the Chalet at midnight, and Foley, who was there, started kidding him. “All the other global thinkers are folding up, Jim. They just haven’t got your stuff. They all sent wires here to Wolgast. Read that wire from Dorothy Thompson, Wolgast,” he shouted.

  “I’m giving him a drink on the house instead,” Wolgast said.

  When he had finished the drink McAlpine leaned over the bar. “How’s the white horse?” he asked.

  “Going strong.” Wolgast smiled a little.

  “Well, don’t fall off it, eh?”

  “I never do,” Wolgast said. After meditating a little he whispered, “Thanks for giving my message to your friend.”

  “Oh, then it’s all right?”

  “No, not exactly.”

  “Were you talking to her?”

  “Yeah, she was around here. Marched right in and had her little say. But some other people were here and I couldn’t make my point. Didn’t have a chance. I’ll make it, though, don’t worry.”

  “Oh!” McAlpine said uneasily. His suspicion had been verified. “Did you go around to see her?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

  “No. Why?”

  “Well, you did once before.”

  “I don’t do the same thing twice.” And that was all there was to it, and McAlpine had to sit down wondering if Wolgast had lied to him.

  The bar was a quiet friendly haven. The white-haired stock-broker in the beautiful grey suit who had been there the first night was sober and serious now; he had half an hour to relax before an appointment with a client. Malone and Henry Jackson, at the bar with Gagnon, tried to join in the table conversation, wanting to be friendly. They offered diffident and placating smiles. Only McAlpine was subdued. But gradually the respectful friendliness of the little bar touched him. Everybody was good-humoured. No one was noisy. There were no insults. They were all polite and all at home, and he too began to relax and feel secure.

  Milton Rogers, flushed and jovial, came in and sat down at the table, ordered a round of drinks and rubbed his hands together in high glee. A new little singer was down at the St. Antoine: a high yellow girl with a mean low wail in her voice who could do things with her arms and shoulders and waft you right out of this stinking society. “Right from the pants, she sings. Right from the pants,” he said rhapsodically. “You never heard anything like it.”

  Rogers’s enthusiasm was understandable even if a bit boyish. They took turns insulting him, belittling his taste in women and his callow instincts. In spite of his laughter his face got red; he was wounded and he offered to buy them all a round of drinks if they didn’t agree with him about the girl. They could all get a taxi and go down to St. Antoine at once, he said, looking hopefully at McAlpine.

  “Why not?” McAlpine said. He wanted to go. He tried to appear indifferent, yet he was eager to have this legitimate opportunity of seeing whether Peggy was in the café. But Foley complained that he had just ordered a steak, which he intended to eat right there at the bar; he didn’t care whether the lady sang from hunger or the pants. The days when he would rush out into the night to hear a sultry singer were gone. But he had said the wrong thing; he had exposed himself to insult, and Rogers joyfully accused him of being a sterile old man. Even Malone and Henry Jackson gibed at him. Everybody but Foley became exuberantly enthusiastic. Glowering at them, he complained that he hadn’t had any dinner, and finally he said with a deft air that since Wolgast was his only friend he wasn’t going to walk out and leave him alone. Of course he would go if Wolgast did. It was a mistake. Wolgast, with a glance at McAlpine that implied he was absolutely impersonal about Negro nightclubs, offered to go along with them.

  “What about your bar?”

  “Derle hasn’t done any work all day. He can look after it,” Wolgast said.

  They all got up to get their coats and hats, Malone and Jackson trailing along, not quite sure that they were in the party. Pushing one another and snickering, they piled out of the restaurant. It was a peaceful mild winter night. The snow was wet and slippery. The moon shone and the stars were out. Rogers ran to the corner and got a taxi. Wolgast slipped and sprawled in the snow, and they all gathered around him, doubling up with laughter. At the corner, Rogers began to throw snowballs, and one big wet blob landed on McAlpine’s neck as he bent to grab Wolgast’s arm. It was all very jolly. They were like a bunch of boys playing around in the snow. No one really felt drunk.

  The taxi, backing up the street, churned the snow and sprayed it over them. When they piled in there was one delicate moment – Malone would be left sitting on McAlpine’s lap; but Jackson, with poetic awareness, suggested that he and Malone sit in the front seat with the driver.

  It was only a little way down the hill, and McAlpine was the first one out.

  “Listen!” shouted Rogers, who was paying for the taxi. From the open upstairs window came the sound of a girl singing. “My God, there she is! We’re missing her!” he shouted wildly, and they all rushed at the entrance, brushing aside the doorman and crowding one another from the checkroom and confusing the girl with their laughter. Rogers threw her a bill. They all went pounding up the stairs. Foley tripped and cursed, and Gagnon had to grab him and yank him up.

  They charged into the nightclub, all out of breath. The manager, a hard-faced mulatto, tried to stop them, but was not too belligerent. He wasn’t sure of himself; he had heard the
heavy pounding on the stairs and had thought it was a raid.

  “Out of the way,” Rogers cried. “Can’t you see she’s singing?” And he led the way back to the chromium bar. The manager, relieved, let his hands drop, and turned and looked blankly at the singer.

  She was a good-looking mulatto in a white dress; her hair, parted in the middle, fell on her bare shoulders. There was something delicate and yet untamed in her face, and the delicacy of her features contrasted with her husky voice, which was, as Rogers had said, mean and sensual. She knew it and smiled a little; she could do things with her arms and shoulders like a ballet dancer.

  “Okay,” Rogers said softly. “What do you think?”

  “For my money she’s just another hot broad,” Wolgast said.

  “I say nuts,” Foley growled. His barked shin was hurting him.

  “She has to sing too loud in here,” Gagnon said professionally. “It’s not fair to her. She has to sing above too much noise. It will spoil her. You can’t fight the beer, no matter how good you are. She should have an intimate little club on Peel Street.”

  “I like my own joint better than this one,” Wolgast said, looking around. “Too many beer drinkers. A joint where they drink so much beer gets a bad name quick.”

  “It’s not the joint, it’s the dame,” Rogers said. “What about her, McAlpine?”

  “Not bad,” McAlpine said absently. But he had hardly looked at the girl. His eyes had wandered hesitantly around the crowded room, seeking each familiar object and fitting it carefully into his memory of the place. There was Wagstaffe, his horn in his right hand, his head half turned away from his band as he watched the singer. And Wilson, the trumpet player, who had been listening, had just raised the trumpet to his lips. To his left at one of the tables close to the bandstand was Mrs. Wilson in an elaborate copper-coloured gown with two other women also in copper gowns and two broad-shouldered Negroes, light in colour, who were appraising the singer. Sometimes the two men whispered to each other. And across the floor in the shadow, well back from the band and not more than twenty paces away from McAlpine, sat Peggy in her white blouse. He hadn’t wanted to look first in that direction.