“I heard you cry out,” she said. “I heard you the first time.”
“I didn’t think you heard me.”
“Yes, I heard you,” she said, nodding and reflecting. “And yet it was strange. I had known all along that at some terrible moment when I was alone I would hear you cry out to me.”
“Yes, that is strange,” he agreed, walking up and down, feeling happy.
“Those yells and curses. Such irrational fury, the frenzy of people possessed. And the awful faces – like demons. All unnatural and inhuman.”
“It was horrible for you, Peggy.”
“Yet your voice, Jim. A human voice. I knew what it meant. I knew what it said. I didn’t want to hear anything else. Just that one voice.”
“Well,” he said, smiling a little, “now you can hear it to your heart’s content.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” she said. “And everything becomes normal again. Oh, so sweetly normal! See, I hear your shoes squeaking. Your feet must be soaking wet, Jim.”
“I slipped in a snow bank. I left my overshoes back there in the café.”
“Why don’t you take off your shoes and put them on the radiator?”
“I think I will.” Sitting down, he took off his shoes and put them on the hot radiator. “Now I’ll make some coffee,” he said.
She crouched on the bed, watching him move around in his stocking feet. At the stove he turned, grinning, and asked if she had seen Foley behind the bar. “I did,” she said. “But I wonder why the Negro women didn’t run like the white women did.” And he said, “Maybe they felt it was their café.” But, whatever they said, they were comforting to each other.
“You’ve got dust all over your coat and pants,” she said. Of course he had; he had sprawled on the café floor. Getting up quickly, she got a whisk from the cupboard and had him stand still while she brushed him. She did a thorough job, examining each smudge on his coat intently, then brushing it with vigour. It seemed to be important to her that he be cleaned up before they had coffee together – that not one smudge from the café should remain on him. “Stand there. Don’t move,” she said. Then she hurried along the hall and got a basin of water and she wiped his face with a cloth, almost apologetically, as if she had put the smudges on him herself and wanted him to forgive her and look as he had always looked in that room. “There. Now we can have coffee. My, it’s a good homely, friendly smell, isn’t it?”
When they had finished the coffee and he was putting the cups on the table, she lay back contemplating the picture he had drawn of her in her factory overalls.
“Remember the day you drew that picture?” she asked.
“I remember.”
“Bring it to me, will you, Jim?”
“Why?” he asked, getting the drawing for her. Without answering, she held the picture out at arm’s length, regarding it with an ironic smile.
“Peggy the Crimper,” she said. “Me down there in the factory! It seems just as incredible, doesn’t it? Well, I have a feeling that’s gone, too.” She watched him, wondering about him, feeling that she was nothing now, yet knowing she still had the security of his faithful devotion.
“Come here, Jim,” she said softly, and she put out her hand to him, letting the picture flutter to the floor half under the bed. And when he bent down she put both her arms around him, drew him to her, and held him hard against her. They lay folded in each other’s arms. For a long time they lay there tight against each other, hardly moving, hearing the smallest sounds; and these sounds and the beating of their own hearts became their own world, and it was warm and good. Icicles outside the window began to drip. Someone went whistling up the street in the mild evening.
It got warmer in the room. In some nearby house a baby cried and cried, and a dog began to bark, then another dog, and when the baby stopped crying there was only the barking of one dog. Someone came in the front door and moved around in the room overhead. “Mrs. Agnew was out late,” Peggy whispered. He kept her folded in his arms because he knew she wanted to feel important to someone and be comforted and be held there until she could believe she belonged to someone and yet was herself. He wanted to soothe away her fear and shame. Then suddenly he felt her lips on his neck. “You’re very sweet,” she whispered. As he caressed her, he could feel her heart beating against him; he could hear nothing but the beating of her heart growing louder, and it stirred up the old ache in him.
“Remember when I first came in?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“You seemed to be expecting somebody. Were you?”
“I didn’t know.”
“Who else could have come?”
“I wasn’t sure,” she said candidly. “It might be you. It might be Ronnie Wilson.”
“Wilson. Why Wilson?”
“He tried to help me.”
“So he did,” he said, and it troubled him, for he remembered that not only had Wilson rushed to protect her; a Negro waiter had defended her; other Negroes had fought believing she belonged to them.
“Oh, Jim!” she said, tightening her arm around him impulsively. “Don’t ever leave me, will you?”
“Never?”
“No, never.”
“May I stay here tonight?”
“If you want to, Jim.”
But he could hardly believe she was willing to abandon herself to him, and he hesitated, remembering the night she had pushed him away, having no desire for him.
“Maybe you’re just lonely,” he said, not really to her, but to explain to himself the loss of her will to resist. If she were too lonely to resist it could mean… But the dull ache in his brain told him what it could mean. Some of those café Negroes had used her as a scapegoat; they had all let her be driven away alone. She believed that they had all turned on her, and that they now despised her, and she was heartbroken. But if one of them had got to the room before he had, and could be there now comforting her, how grateful she would be to him for showing her she could still count on their gentle affection, how moved she would be and how anxious to show him they could still have all her love! For hadn’t she truly belonged to them? They had taken the happiest part of her childhood. That naked Johnson boy, Jock, had been the one who first stirred her. And if one of them were beside her now caressing and reassuring her, how much more it would mean to her! But, instead, he himself was there, and she was left with him, feeling despised by the others; and her love, which she could deny him when she had respect, he could now have if he wanted it.
In an agony of doubt he hesitated, his hand on the button of her blouse, and while he hesitated his head was filled with the mocking laughter of everyone he knew in the city; they rushed into the room, they shouted out their coarse accusations, then snickered and scoffed at his belief that she had been coming closer every day to a realization of her love for him; they jeered at his insight, drowned out his own inner voice, and he could hear Rogers cry, “Will the poor dope never get wise to her?”
“In the beginning,” he said, “you didn’t want me, did you?”
“I liked you from the first, Jim.”
“But not to lie with me like this. Not me.”
“Not like this – at the start. No.”
“Not in the way you liked…”
“Liked who?”
“Well, Wagstaffe, till he turned—”
“No, with you it was different, Jim.”
“That’s right. Different,” he agreed, feeding his doubt by deliberately misunderstanding her. But his thoughts were whirling wildly. It was the others who clamoured for his attention, insisting he listen: they had got into the room and were dancing around in his mind; Foley, his best friend, and Gagnon and Jackson and Wolgast – and they all twisted and tortured his thoughts, digging out of the depths of his mind the suspicions he had so resolutely suppressed.
“You’d think Wagstaffe would have remembered that first night he took you home, and he was so gentle,” he said, making it sound sympathetic.
; “No one could have been gentler.”
“It’s a touch. Some have it with a woman. Yes, you knew he had it,” he said softly. He had gotten her to admit something. But he had hardly heard what she said. The others were all in his mind yelling, To hell with Wagstaffe! Ask her about Wilson!
“Wagstaffe wasn’t like the trumpet player,” he said reflecting, keeping his tone sympathetic. He could hardly bear to go on with it. A few more words and he would deepen his own agony, he would expose her to a more terrible hurt, yet he had to go on: “Wilson got a little closer to you,” he said, trying to disarm her with his mild tone.
“Well, his ways were different, Jim.”
“Ways that were different. Sure.”
“I knew I could count on him.”
“Sure you did,” he said. And in the tormenting darkness of his mind all the others were yelling, Different way, sure, the way of the dark meat she goes for. Why else did she call Jackson a white bastard?
His hand on her head, he looked down at her face. She smiled, waiting, and he had to turn away and avoid her eyes.
“What’s the matter, Jim?” she asked.
“Nothing. I mean… Well…” he began. “Am I the one? Are you sure, Peggy?”
“Yes, Jim.”
“Tonight we’re excited. We’re all mixed up. Will you feel this way tomorrow, Peggy?”
“I know I will.”
“And you’d go away with me?”
“Yes, Jim. Anywhere.”
But she knew he was troubled, for he got up slowly. “What is it, Jim?” she asked, sitting on the side of the bed.
“Well, tomorrow,” he began, hesitating, “if any of your Negro friends should talk to you, would you feel the same as you do now, Peggy?”
“You’ve a right to ask that,” she said. “But I know how I feel.”
“I want you to feel sure, Peggy. Not be driven into something because of what’s happened tonight. I want to be fair to you. Tomorrow you won’t feel lonely. You’ll be yourself. I want you to feel free.” With these consoling words he tried to hide from her the doubt that had entered his mind. If he could only get away from the night, see her again in the morning, see her aside from this room and its place in the night! His humiliating doubt was only a part of the night’s humiliation, he told himself; if he could come upon her freshly in the morning he would have his own view of her back again; he would see her as he had always seen her. If he touched her now, drew her to him, took her love when he was struggling to keep his faith in her, he would be cheapening her and taking her for what they said she was. “To have anything that happens between us,” he began, but he had to stop; his voice shook, and the sound of his own words was a bitter torment. “I mean it would be wrong to have it a part of this night. Don’t you understand?” he said shakily. “It wouldn’t be good. Not fair to you.” And he put out his hands to her and she stood up and took them.
“I understand,” she said gently. There was a silence. With a compassionate understanding, she was letting him keep his belief in his good faith.
But she had a new calmness. She raised her head with a shy dignity. The loneliness in her steady eyes and the strange calmness revealed that she knew he had betrayed himself and her, and that at last she was left alone.
In the moment’s silence he tried to grasp what was revealed in her eyes; he almost felt it, but it was lost to him in the anguish of deeper uncertainty about her acceptance of the honesty of his belief that he did not want to cheapen her.
“You’re tired and troubled, aren’t you, Jim?” she said quietly. “Well, there’s tomorrow.”
“Will we have a late breakfast tomorrow?” he asked.
“I’ll be waiting.”
“I’ll come down here.”
“Fine, Jim.”
“Maybe my shoes are dry,” he said.
He put on his shoes and they faced each other. When he kissed her, the touch of her lips filled him with a nameless ache that was unbearably painful. “Be sure you lock the door,” he said.
“I will.”
“Good night. Good night, Peggy.”
“Good night, Jim,” she said, and she gave him a little smile.
Outside, he stood in the shadow of the steps, his mind still whirling. He had left her at peace with herself, yet what about her faint smile when she said good night? It worried him. He stood there leaning against the outer door. How do I know, he thought, she will look any different in the morning? It was like listening to someone else prompting him. It was his own inner voice, but it seemed to come from someone else: How do you know that in the morning you’ll be able to believe in her again? If you let go, can it come again? It’s now. Now. It’s what you have now that you’ll keep. How do you know that in the night she won’t get further beyond the reach of your faith? If you go back in there – even if you’re suspicious and nasty and brutal – what does it matter whether you’re fair to her? Wavering, he would have gone back; but when he was turning in the shadow under the steps he stopped, startled, for there on the sidewalk was a Negro boy, not more than sixteen, coming in.
It was Al Jones, the Negro shoeshine boy, who had often laughed and joked with Peggy.
“Hey, you! What do you want?” McAlpine asked harshly. The Negro boy had appeared there like an apparition to justify all the jealous doubts already tormenting him. He strode toward the boy, who had backed away, and grabbed him by the shoulder.
“I was going to…” Al tried to explain. “I was going to see…” Then he grew frightened; it was McAlpine’s eyes. He tried to jerk away.
“You little bastard – hanging around for what?” McAlpine grunted, twisting his arm. “Get the hell out of here – fast, do you hear?” And he shoved him savagely. The Negro boy, lurching away, went limping down the street. McAlpine watched him sombrely. Then he glanced at the door. Tonight – like this – I could only humiliate her, he thought. Turning, he strode up the street, looking at the ridge of the mountain against the sky; the lights glittered on the ridge, and he seemed to be walking right against it, and it had never been so dark or so high.
TWENTY-FIVE
In the bright morning the whole city steamed and sparkled in the thawing sunlight. Ice-coated trees on the mountain made glittering, lacy patterns with their sunlit branches, and the banked, melting snow on the hills turned a thousand sidewalks into rivulets that twinkled and twisted in the sunlight on their way down the slopes. Icicles on the sloping roofs sparkled like chandeliers, and on the house on Crescent Street three giant icicles had formed on the steps and were dripping over the basement entrance to Peggy’s apartment.
Mrs. Agnew, standing at her front window, looked out at the melting snow with satisfaction. She wanted to go up to Sherbrooke Street to one of the little hat shops. When it was bitter cold she hated those windy corners. She believed they were the coldest corners in Montreal. You climbed right into the wind when you got to Sherbrooke, and it really took hold of you.
Through her window she saw two Negroes, who had been coming up on the other side of the street, stop before her house and look over.
Elton Wagstaffe and the grim, bony-faced café manager were inspecting Mrs. Agnew’s house, making sure they had the right number. Wagstaffe usually wore a camel-haired tan-coloured coat, but today he had on a double-breasted dark coat and a black fedora, and the manager also had on a dark coat and dark fedora. Both the same height, they both had the same solemn, sedate air. They turned to consult each other before crossing the street in step. To Mrs. Agnew they looked like a couple of Negro undertakers or solemn emissaries who were carrying out an important mission. As they climbed her steps, they had a lordly air. Without waiting for the bell to ring, she hurried out to the hall and waited for them.
“How do you do?” she said uneasily when she had opened the door.
“How do you do?” Wagstaffe said, his tone formal.
“How do you do?” the manager repeated in the same tone.
“What can I do for you?”
Mrs. Agnew assumed their own solemn tone and held her kimono tight across her chest.
“A Miss Sanderson lives here?”
“Well, she lives downstairs. It’s the other door, just below.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” said Wagstaffe, bowing, and they both raised their hats.
“But she wouldn’t be in,” Mrs. Agnew added quickly because she had become very curious. “Have you a message for her? I could give her the message.”
Glancing at each other, they hesitated cautiously. “Are you by any chance the landlady here?” Wagstaffe asked.
“I’m Mrs. Agnew, the lady of the house.”
“You would know if Miss Sanderson had left town?”
“Left town? Of course I would. Why would she leave town?”
“She has said nothing about getting out of town?”
“Why, no! What is this?”
“Our apologies, Mrs. Agnew,” said the manager.
“What’ll I say to her?”
“Just tell her we were here.”
“And that you asked if she had got out of town?”
“Exactly, ma’am, and thank you,” they said. Again they raised their hats, bowed, turned together, and left her standing there mystified. They descended the steps and went down the street with their measured stride without once looking back. Only then did she realize that she hadn’t asked them their names.
“Well! Well, what do you know?” she said. She had been extraordinarily impressed by their dignity. And they had really expected to find that Peggy had left town. In that case there must have been some talk about her leaving town. But Peggy had borrowed ten dollars from her a week ago. She counted on Peggy repaying her that night when she came home from the factory; she was planning to advance herself the ten from her own purse and go up to that Sherbrooke hat shop. She wanted something new that night when her grinning, bald, inexhaustible little man from St. Agathe came to see her. She liked Peggy. She couldn’t believe the girl would skip out without paying her. It wasn’t like her at all. But the girl’s Negro friends might know a lot more about her. Above all, Mrs. Agnew wanted to count on getting the money for that hat.
The Loved and the Lost Page 22
