Strange Fugitive

by Morley Callaghan

  He took a big drink of beer. “Mr. Trotter, Freddie died,” he said. His red-rimmed eyes bleared with tears. “They said he died of del-er-ium tre-mens,” he said it slowly, to be accurate. He took the salt shaker from the table and began to caress it with both hands. “That wasn’t so long ago either,” he said.

  “Then it was up to me to do the right thing,” he said. “I had to send Freddie home for a decent burial. That’s what father wanted. I got a letter from father saying he would meet the corpse at New York. Bob, you will understand that I had to assume responsibility,” he said with great dignity, straightening up in his chair. “I had the undertaker do the right thing by Freddie. I had a dress suit put on him. A full dress suit on Freddie in the coffin.”

  They all turned and looked at Angelina who was walking over to the fellows and girls at the table. It was getting late. Everybody was going. “You’ll have to go some place else with the girls,” Angelina said distinctly. “It’s all right to meet them here but you’ll have to go some place else.” Angelina glanced once or twice at the door, afraid the Italian girls were waiting on the stairs.

  “It’s getting late,” Harry said.

  “Freddie looked simply splendid in that dress suit,” Mr. Harris said very seriously. “I met the old man in New York. He shook my hand very warmly and then we went to look at Freddie in the coffin. The old man looked at him and he was so proud I thought I’d cry. ‘Fred was a gentleman,’ the old man said. ‘He looks like a Harris.’”

  Mr. Harris was squeezing the salt shaker till the bones stood out white in his thin hands. “I been here since supper time,” he said. His chin dropped to his chest. “No good,” he mumbled. “No good.” Lifting his head he said eagerly: “Do ya think, men, I’ll look that good in a dress suit? Will he say that about me?”

  “He sure will, Harris,” Bob said enthusiastically.

  “Do you think so, Mr. Trotter?”

  “You got nothing to worry about.”

  “We’ll be stepping along,” Jimmie said, getting up. They shook hands. They went out. Harry looked for the Italian girls on the stair. They had gone.

  “I was getting kind of tired of that guy, Harris,” he said.

  “I kinda liked it.”

  “It was all right for a while but I wanted to get moving. Come on and let’s go to Arcadia and dance.”

  “It’s late, we’ll only have about an hour.”

  “Come on anyway.”

  They walked over to take the car. Harry was thinking of Bob back in Angelina’s.

  “I guess Bob’s about done,” he said.

  “He looks all in.”

  “Why on earth did he marry her? Other guys have married Jewesses and got along all right.”

  “It ain’t that. It’s the way he handled things. He can’t get out of it now. He’s just a bum now.”

  They took the streetcar to Arcadia, the biggest dance hall in the city, dancing every night in the week, the snappiest orchestra in town.

  5

  In the dance hall lavatory young men elbowed each other away from the mirror trying to comb back sleek hair and brush dandruff from shoulders. The hot-water tap was running. Paper towels were used, crushed and tossed on the floor. Nash waited at the door while Harry combed his hair.

  They went upstairs and bought tickets at the wicket. The music had stopped, a dance was over and the crowd sauntered off the floor through gates and into alcoves.

  “There’s two peaches over there. What do you say?” Jimmie said.

  “The fair one’s a kind of a frump isn’t she?”

  “Well, what do you expect for your money, gravy on it?”

  “Lemme have the dark one then.”

  “Sure, they both look alike to me.”

  “Just a minute, Jimmie, take a look at that egg over there. He gets on my nerves.”

  A slim, elegant fellow was hemmed in by three or four girls who looked at him eagerly liking his arched eyebrows, lips lipsoled and lightly rouged cheeks. He smiled showing his teeth, holding the smile, talking good-naturedly to all the girls, playing no favourites, a duke, a prince. The music started and he didn’t ask one of the girls to dance but smiled aloofly, nodding encouragement to other fellows coming up to claim dances.

  “Jees, how I hate that guy,” Harry said.

  “He’s on the outside of things,” Jimmie said. “You can’t touch him. Come on, let’s grab off those two kids over there, or someone else will do it.”

  Jimmie asked the blond girl to dance. She didn’t speak or smile, but went on chewing gum, her eyes wandering around the hall. She simply took Jimmie’s arm. The tall, hollow-eyed dark girl’s heavily arched lips smiled encouragement at Harry. He took her arm, a warm, intimate arm.

  “Do you dance here much?” she said as they passed through the gate.

  “Now and then,” he said, liking the lazy droop of her body and soft swell of breast pressed firmly against him. Too much perfume on her. “I wonder why she isn’t here with somebody,” he thought.

  “I’m not much of a dancer,” he said apologetically.

  “Oh, that’s all right,” she said politely.

  They danced straight ahead, the old-fashioned jerky strut, though every one else seemed to be doing a variation of the Charleston. One, two, three, on the floor, swish, swish, swish. Yes sir, she’s my baby, and I don’t mean maybe, yes sir, she’s my baby doll, sang the saxophone player on the platform. In slow, twisting eddies, the dancers moved around the floor, legs swinging, soles beating to the insistent rhythm of the Charleston.

  “I’m sorry I can’t Charleston,” Harry said.

  “Oh, that’s all right,” she said generously.

  He looked down at her. “Oh go to hell,” he thought, annoyed by the monotonous vibration and sound of soles swishing on the floor. He bumped into somebody. A flying heel barked his shin. He looked around. Everybody happy. Everybody grinning. His girl very serious, the heavily arched red lips on the powdered pale face never wavering. She had a straight nose, a better nose than Vera had. She was hardly interested in him. He wondered what she was thinking about, “I wonder why she breathes so heavily,” he thought, watching her nostrils dilating. He squeezed her and thought of the darkened alcoves where they could sit down. Her legs were long silken legs, brushing against him, moving easily, seeking something. Then he felt he didn’t want to think any more about it. The saxophone player stopped singing and lifted his instrument, handling it expertly. “Hot papa,” the girl said suddenly. The dance was over.

  “I wonder where Jimmie is?” Harry said, mopping his face with his handkerchief.

  “Oh, Mabel’ll be along,” she said.

  “Can we have another dance?”

  “Oh, I guess so. I can stand it if you can,” she said, friendly and smiling.

  “We get along all right, eh?” Harry said. She was worth taking out after the dance. She had class and looked like a peach, though she probably lived with the other girl in some hole in the wall.

  Jimmie and the fair girl sauntered over.

  “’Lo kids,” he said.

  “How’d it go, Jimmie?”

  “Fine as silk. Me and the girlfriend, and the girlfriend and me are going to stick together,” Jimmie said affably. “How about you two?”

  “Might as well, I guess.”

  “We got along fine,” the dark girl said.

  They stood near the ticket booth, Jimmie doing most of the talking, with an easy assurance pleasing to the blond girl. They were watching two girls who were a little tight kidding each other, three fellows urging the girls to get more enthusiastic. One of the girls who was a little tight had a heavy masculine jaw and a snub nose but looked good-natured as she swung her body indolently, snubbing the girl friend with an air of grotesque respectability. The girlfriend’s short thin coat showed big, round knees and bow-legs when she swung into the light. Harry looked out of the corner of his eye at his own girl, her arm linked in his, a pale pink scarf knotted in a sweethea
rt bow at her neck. Hollow eyes she had and lazy limbs and a drooping weariness. She was better-looking than Jimmie’s girl, who was whispering to him and giggling.

  The slim elegant young man with the rouged cheeks passed, casually nodding his head to Harry’s girl. She smiled cheerfully, waving her hand. His short coat, snug at the hips, irritated Harry. He was a duke, a prince, he was on the outside looking in.

  The bow-legged girl who was a little tight was laughing out loud. She couldn’t stop laughing. The girlfriend slapped her on the back and she started to hiccough and her face got red.

  “I think it’s time the bouncer threw those bums out,” the blond girl said to Jimmie.

  “Let ‘em be, let ‘em be,” Harry said.

  “The dear girls must have their fun,” Jimmie said.

  The hiccoughing girl and her friend went off to the ladies’ room. Harry grinned at the dark girl, taking more interest in her, preparing to suggest a rest in one of the alcoves. In the old days in Arcadia refreshments had been served in the alcoves, but the idea had never been successful, and now fellows sat in easy chairs with girls on their knees, on the watch for the bouncer in the balcony, who kept an eye on the alcoves.

  “Too many Jews here,” Harry said suddenly.

  “Some Jews are pretty nice,” the red lips moved, she spoke broad-mindedly.

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah, you said it.”

  “Oh well, let’s stick together the rest of the evening, eh?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, I don’t know. I don’t know what Mabel’ll want to do.”

  “Leave that to Jimmie, sweetheart.”

  “I guess it’s all the same anyway.”

  Music started. Harry fumbled in his vest pocket for tickets. She gave him a coy smile and a long sincere glance.

  They were dancing better this time. He knew the song and hummed it, strutting. The orchestra was doing a pantomime, the crowd surging slowly toward that end of the hall, dancers jockeying for position so as not to move very far away. Harry bumped into someone. Turning slowly, he again bumped and was annoyed. His girl looked up mildly. He grinned but was irritated. He was bumped and this time he bumped back, holding the girl firmly. He looked around grimly. The elegant young man with trimmed eyebrows passed gracefully, a nice Jewish boy. Harry tried to get going but was hemmed in, dancers balancing, bodies swaying with the music. Again he was bumped and he turned sharply, elbowing the fellow away. The lipsoled young man, holding the smile as long as possible, was plainly disgusted and deliberately bumped him again.

  Harry stuck out his arm and pushed him away. His arm was pushed aside. Suddenly hating, he swung his open palm and caught the young Jew across the mouth. He felt his girl pulling away from him. She pushed her way among the dancers until he could not see her.

  He was slightly puzzled to find himself standing alone on the floor and the music going on. A little Jew with oiled hair dived at his legs. He dropped his knee, catching him on the forehead. The music stopped. The little Jew lay on the floor swearing. The slim boy with the rouged cheeks looked at Harry, hesitating. Girls, screaming, backed away. A big Jew with wide heavy shoulders jumped on Harry’s back, and feeling his knees sagging, Harry dropped quickly to his knees, swinging his body, getting one leg around the fellow’s middle. Someone hit him in the eye. He yelled and hung on tight and kicked out, and his toe hit something soft. He smelled sweat. The big fellow was sprawled across his face. Someone was on top of him, punching. The Jew started to cry and rolled over. Harry tried to get up but someone punched his head.

  “Get up, Harry,” Jimmie yelled.

  Harry got up on his knees. He rubbed the back of his head with his hand. He blinked his eyes, then gently massaged his left eye. He got up slowly.

  “How are you feeling?” Jimmie asked.

  “Fine.”

  “Like hell.”

  “You look kinda tough.”

  Jimmie’s mouth was bleeding. They got off the floor, walking along the aisle. Two bouncers had hold of two fellows by the neck. “Come on, let’s go down to the lavatory,” Jimmie said. Three sympathetic fellows followed them to the lavatory.

  In the lavatory Harry looked at himself in the mirror, and fingered his swollen eyelid. “Boy, what an eye you’ve got,” Jimmie said. Harry daubed his eye with a paper towel soaked in hot water. He didn’t turn away from the mirror. His tie was pulled away from the collar, his coat-sleeve torn at the shoulder. His fingers twitched at the torn sleeve. His thoughts got all mixed up and he glared at fellows jammed in the doorway, regarding him silently.

  “I didn’t get him either,” he said to Jimmie.

  “Who?”

  “The little Jew with the coat.”

  “Forget him. Let’s get out of her quick before the cops come.”

  Steam from hot-water taps clouded the room, making the air heavy and moist. Fellows crowding at the door were a little afraid of Harry, but wanted him to see they admired him, one of them, only bigger and stronger and carrying them along with him. One of the boys suggested they talk it over there in the lavatory and go after a bunch of Jews outside. They talked excitedly, watching Harry standing there erect and husky, mopping his lean face with a steaming handkerchief, his forehead sweating, his fair hair wet and curling. He looked around obstinately, only half-hearing, and breathing deeply, lifted one hand to his shoulder, toying with the rip. He straightened up suddenly and leaped toward the door.

  He went upstairs, three steps at a time. He stood still, looking around deliberately. Two or three couples were dancing, many people were talking. He saw the lipsoled young man in a corner alcove, surrounded by three Jews and two girls. They saw him coming. Somebody hollered. The slim man darted out along the aisle and ran. Harry ran, and someone tossed a floor lamp at him as he passed the alcove.

  He followed around the aisle, gaining rapidly. He knew he could catch him. Hurt him, deep and tight, the little show-off. The form-fitting coat snug at the hips flew open and the slim boy jumped, tripping on the rail, stumbling on the dancing floor. Harry vaulted and caught up to him. The little Jew feeling him close, dropped on the floor, turning flat on his back, and flung his feet at Harry, using the small of his back as a pivot base. Harry took the heels in the belly as he flopped down, driving his fist against the scared face.

  Then he heard shouting and pounding on the floor and yelling, and someone jumped on his back. He swung his elbow, but the weight got heavier until he could hardly move. Then the weight was lifted off. The slim boy was lying very quietly on the floor. He got up quickly. Jimmie was wrestling. The fellows from the lavatory had rushed the Jewish boys and were beating them up. The saxophone in the orchestra started to play, and stopped suddenly, and the orchestra men jumped down on the floor. “Here come the cops,” somebody yelled, and the cops came, two abreast, two wagon-loads through the front door smartly, in double-quick time.

  Harry got off the floor and went up to the balcony by the back stair. Jimmie followed. The balcony was crowded, girls were yelling and craning necks to see the floor. When the cops ran out on the floor, there was no yelling in the balconies. Everybody kept quiet. Harry, looking down, saw the cops going into the alcoves and roughly pushing fellows. Girls were filing down from the balcony to the check-room, the line moving slowly.

  The police inspector ordered everybody to file out quietly. He took the matter philosophically.

  They lined up and got their hats from the check-room. They had to line up to get out. They watched the two girls who were a little tight earlier in the evening, and who now seemed quite drunk. The crowd hemmed in the girls and the officers. Harry kept well back. The girls were having a hard time getting into their coats. A policeman shook one of the girls roughly, giving her a push. The girlfriend with the heavy jaw and snub nose, putting her hands on her hips, wagged her head. The officer shoved her away and her helmet hat dipped down over one eye. The inspector told four policemen to put the girls in the wagon.

  Harry followed the girls
and the officers to the street. He forgot about getting away and was sore at the cops who had hold of the girls. The girls were walking quietly but the tall girl with the big round knees and the bow-legs got excited when she saw the wagon. “Put them in,” the inspector said. Two cops took hold of the taller girl and she jumped at them with her knees, but they got hold of her, lifting her off her feet. In unison they swung her at the open wagon door. Her feet skidded along the wagon floor but her head crashed against the iron doorframe and she lay still, her head hanging out six inches. One of the officers pushed in her head. They did not have so much trouble with the other girl, whose hat was tilted more rakishly over one eye. She was scared sober, though she fought when they pushed her down on top of the girlfriend. The wagon moved away, and she was hollering: “Get your knee off me you bastard, do you hear, get your feet off me.”

  “We’d better pull out of here,” Jimmie said.

  “The poor little tarts.”

  “No use worrying about them, they’ll simply wake up tomorrow and wonder what it was all about.”

  “I know, but still, all right let’s go, up to your place, eh?”

  “All right. I’ll fix up your eye.”

  They moved away quietly. Looking back, Harry saw the cops dispersing the crowd around the dance-hall door.

  They turned north, walking along without talking. Harry’s eye was feeling bad. It was getting worse. His collar, torn away from the front button, was held in place by his tie. He rubbed his eye with his hand. Jimmie looked all right. His shirt had been torn but you couldn’t notice it. They kept in step and Jimmie started to whistle. Harry grinned, then they both laughed out loud.

  “Holy smoke,” Harry said.

  “How you feeling?”

  “Good enough.”

  “Me too.”

  “All right, let’s cut up the street here.”