A tall balding man in a brown velvet smoking jacket suddenly opened the door. Dave had never seen a man wearing one of those jackets, although he had seen them in department-store windows. “Good evening,” he said, making a deprecatory gesture at the cap Steve still clutched tightly in his left hand. “My boy didn’t get your name. My name is Hudson.”
“Mine’s Diamond.”
“Come on in,” Mr. Hudson said, putting out his hand and laughing good-naturedly. He led Dave and Steve into his living room. “What’s this about that cap?” he asked. “The way kids can get excited about a cap. Well, it’s understandable, isn’t it?”
“So it is,” Dave said, moving closer to Steve, who was awed by the broadloom rug and the fine furniture. He wanted to show Steve he was at ease himself, and he wished Mr. Hudson wouldn’t be so polite. That meant Dave had to be polite and affable, too, and it was hard to manage when he was standing in the middle of the floor in his old windbreaker.
“Sit down, Mr. Diamond,” Mr. Hudson said. Dave took Steve’s arm and sat him down on the chesterfield. The Hudson boy watched his father. Dave looked at Steve and saw that he wouldn’t face Mr. Hudson or the other boy; he kept looking up a Dave, putting all his faith in him.
“Well, Mr. Diamond, from what I gathered from my boy, you’re able to prove this cap belonged to your boy.”
“That’s a fact,” Dave said.
“Mr. Diamond, you’ll have to believe my boy bought that cap from some kid in good faith.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Dave said. “But no kid can sell something that doesn’t belong to him. You know that’s a fact, Mr. Hudson.”
“Yes, that’s a fact,” Mr. Hudson agreed. “But that cap means a lot to my boy, Mr. Diamond.”
“It means a lot to my boy, too, Mr. Hudson.”
“Sure it does. But supposing we called in a policeman. You know what he’d say? He’d ask you if you were willing to pay my boy what he paid for the cap. That’s usually the way it works out,” Mr. Hudson said, friendly and smiling, as he eyed Dave shrewdly.
“But that’s not right. It’s not justice,” Dave protested. “Not when it’s my boy’s cap.”
“I know it isn’t right. But that’s what they do.”
“All right. What did you say your boy paid for the cap?” Dave said reluctantly.
“Two dollars.”
“Two dollars!” Dave repeated. Mr. Hudson’s smile was still kindly, but his eyes were shrewd, and Dave knew the lawyer was counting on his not having the two dollars; Mr. Hudson thought he had Dave sized up; he had looked at him and decided he was broke. Dave’s pride was hurt, and he turned to Steve. What he saw in Steve’s face was more powerful than the hurt to his pride: it was the memory of how difficult it had been to get an extra nickel, the talk he heard about the cost of food, the worry in his mother’s face as she tried to make ends meet, and the bewildered embarrassment that he was here in a rich man’s home, forcing his father to confess that he couldn’t afford to spend two dollars. Then Dave grew angry and reckless. “I’ll give you the two dollars,” he said.
Steve looked at the Hudson boy and grinned brightly. The Hudson boy watched his father.
“I suppose that’s fair enough,” Mr. Hudson said. “A cap like this can be worth a lot to a kid. You know how it is. Your boy might want to sell — I mean be satisfied. Would he take five dollars for it?”
“Five dollars?” Dave repeated. “Is it worth five dollars, Steve?” he asked uncertainly.
Steve shook his head and looked frightened.
“No, thanks, Mr. Hudson,” Dave said firmly.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” Mr. Hudson said. “I’ll give you ten dollars. The cap has a sentimental value for my boy, a Philly cap, a big-leaguer’s cap. It’s only worth about a buck and a half really,” he added. But Dave shook his head again. Mr. Hudson frowned. He looked at his own boy with indulgent concern, but now he was embarrassed. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he said. “This cap — well, it’s worth as much as a day at the circus to my boy. Your boy should be recompensed. I want to be fair. Here’s twenty dollars,” and he held out two ten-dollar bills to Dave.
That much money for a cap, Dave thought, and his eyes brightened. But he knew what the cap had meant to Steve; to deprive him of it now that it was within his reach would be unbearable. All the things he needed in his life gathered around him; his wife was there, saying he couldn’t afford to reject the offer, he had no right to do it; and he turned to Steve to see if Steve thought it wonderful that the cap could bring them twenty dollars.
“What do you say, Steve?” he asked uneasily.
“I don’t know,” Steve said. When Dave smiled, Steve smiled too, and Dave believed that Steve was as impressed as he was, only more bewildered, and maybe even more aware that they could not possibly turn away that much money for a ball cap.
“Well, here you are,” Mr. Hudson said, and he put the two bills in Steve’s hand. “It’s a lot of money. But I guess you had a right to expect as much.”
With a dazed, fixed smile Steve handed the money slowly to his father, and his face was white.
Laughing jovially, Mr. Hudson led them to the door. His own boy followed a few paces behind.
In the elevator Dave took the bills out of his pocket. “See, Stevie,” he whispered eagerly. “That windbreaker you wanted! And ten dollars for your bank! Won’t Mother be surprised?”
“Yeah,” Steve whispered, the little smile still on his face. But Dave had to turn away quickly so their eyes wouldn’t meet, for he saw that it was a scared smile.
Outside, Dave said, “Here, you carry the money home, Steve. You show it to your mother.”
“No, you keep it,” Steve said, and then there was nothing to say. They walked in silence.
“It’s a lot of money,” Dave said finally. When Steve did not answer him, he added angrily, “I turned to you, Steve. I asked you, didn’t I?”
“That man knew how much his boy wanted that cap,” Steve said.
“Sure. But he recognized how much it was worth to us.”
“No, you let him take it away from us,” Steve blurted.
“That’s unfair,” Dave said. “Don’t dare say that to me.”
“I don’t want to be like you,” Steve muttered, and he darted across the road and walked along on the other side of the street.
“It’s unfair,” Dave said angrily, only now he didn’t mean that Steve was unfair, he meant that what had happened in the prosperous Hudson home was unfair, and he didn’t know quite why. He had been trapped, not just by Mr. Hudson, but by his own life. Across the road Steve was hurrying along with his head down, wanting to be alone. They walked most of the way home on opposite sides of the street, until Dave could stand it no longer. “Steve,” he called, crossing the street. “It was very unfair. I mean, for you to say . . .” but Steve started to run. Dave walked as fast as he could and Steve was getting beyond him, and he felt enraged and suddenly he yelled, “Steve!” and he started to chase his son. He wanted to get hold of Steve and pound him, and he didn’t know why. He gained on him, he gasped for breath and he almost got him by the shoulder. Turning, Steve saw his father’s face in the street light and was terrified; he circled away, got to the house, and rushed in, yelling, “Mother!”
“Son, son!” she cried, rushing from the kitchen. As soon as she threw her arms around Steve, shielding him, Dave’s anger left him and he felt stupid. He walked past them into the kitchen.
“What happened?” she asked anxiously. “Have you both gone crazy? What did you do, Steve?”
“Nothing,” he said sullenly.
“What did your father do?”
“We found the boy with my ball cap, and he let the boy’s father take it from us.”
“No, no,” Dave protested. “Nobody pushed us around. The man didn’t put anything over us.” He felt tired and his face was burning. He told what had happened; then he slowly took the two ten-dollar bills out of his walle
t and tossed them on the table and looked up guiltily at his wife.
It hurt him that she didn’t pick up the money, and that she didn’t rebuke him. “It is a lot of money, son,” she said slowly. “Your father was only trying to do what he knew was right, and it’ll work out, and you’ll understand.” She was soothing Steve, but Dave knew she felt that she needed to be gentle with him, too, and he was ashamed.
When she went with Steve to his bedroom, Dave sat by himself. His son had contempt for him, he thought. His son, for the first time, had seen how easy it was for another man to handle him, and he had judged him and had wanted to walk alone on the other side of the street. He looked at the money and he hated the sight of it.
His wife returned to the kitchen, made a cup of tea, talked soothingly, and said it was incredible that he had forced the Hudson man to pay him twenty dollars for the cap, but all Dave could think of was how scared Steve was of him.
Finally, he got up and went into Steve’s room. The room was in darkness, but he could see the outlines of Steve’s body on the bed, and he sat down beside him and whispered, “Look, son, it was a mistake. I know why. People like us — in circumstances where money can scare us. No, no,” he said, feeling ashamed and shaking his head apologetically; he was taking the wrong way of showing the boy they were together; he was covering up his own failure. For the failure had been his, and it had come out of being so separated from his son that he had been blind to what was beyond price in a boy’s life. He longed now to show Steve he could be with him day to day. His hand went out hesitantly to Steve’s shoulder. “Steve, look,” he said eagerly. “The trouble was I didn’t realize how much I enjoyed it that night at the ballpark. If I had watched you playing for your own team — the kids around here say you could be a great pitcher. We could take that money and buy a new pitcher’s glove for you, and a catcher’s mitt. Steve, Steve, are you listening? I could catch you, work with you in the lane. Maybe I could be your coach . . . watch you become a great pitcher.” In the half-darkness he could see the boy’s pale face turn to him.
Steve, who had never heard his father talk like this, was shy and wondering. All he knew was that his father, for the first time, wanted to be with him in his hopes and adventures. He said, “I guess you do know how important that cap was.” His hand went out to his father’s arm. “With that man the cap was — well it was just something he could buy, eh Dad?” Dave gripped his son’s hand hard. The wonderful generosity of childhood — the price a boy was willing to pay to be able to count on his father’s admiration and approval — made him feel humble, then strangely exalted.
Now That April’s Here
As soon as they got the money they bought two large black hats and left America to live permanently in Paris. They were bored in their native city in the Middle West and convinced that the American continent had nothing to offer them. Charles Milford, who was four years older than Johnny Hill, had a large round head that ought to have belonged to a Presbyterian minister. Johnny had a rather chinless faun’s head. When they walked down the street the heads together seemed more interesting. They came to Paris in the late autumn.
They got on very quickly in Montparnasse. In the afternoons they wandered around the streets, looking in art gallery windows at the prints of the delicate clever unsubstantial line work of Foujita. Pressing his nose against the window Johnny said, “Quite a sound technique, don’t you think, Charles?”
“Oh sound, quite sound.”
They never went to the Louvre or the museum in the Luxembourg Gardens, thinking it would be in the fashion of tourists, when they intended really to settle in Paris. In the evenings they sat together at a table on the terrace of the café, and clients, noticing them, began thinking of them as “the two boys”. One night, Fanny Lee, a blond, fat American girl who had been an entertainer at Zelli’s until she lost her shape, but not her hilarity, stepped over to the boys’ table and yelled, “Oh, gee, look what I’ve found!” They were discovered. Fanny liking them for their quiet, well-mannered behavior, insisted on introducing them to everybody at the bar. They bowed together at the same angle, smiling so cheerfully, so obviously willing to be obliging, that Fanny was anxious to have them follow her from one bar to another, hoping they would pay for her drinks.
They felt much better after the evening with Fanny. Johnny, the younger one, who had a small income of $100 a month, was supporting Charles, who, he was sure, would one day become a famous writer. Johnny did not take his own talent very seriously; he had been writing his memoirs of their adventures since they were fifteen, after reading George Moore’s Confessions of a Young Man. George Moore’s book had been mainly responsible for their visit to Paris. Johnny’s memoirs, written in a snobbishly aristocratic manner, had been brought up to the present and now he was waiting for something to happen to them. They were much happier the day they got a cheaper room on Boulevard Arago near the tennis court.
They were happy at the cafés in the evenings but liked best being at home together in their own studio, five minutes away from the cafés. They lay awake in bed together a long time talking about everything that happened during the day, consoling each other by saying the weather would be finer later on and anyway they could always look forward to the spring days next April. Fanny Lee, who liked them, was extraordinarily friendly and only cost them nine or ten drinks an evening. They lay awake in bed talking about her, sometimes laughing so hard the bed springs squeaked. Charles, his large round head buried in the pillow, snickered gleefully listening to Johnny making fun of Fanny Lee.
Soon they knew everybody in the Quarter, though no one knew either of them very intimately. People sitting at the café in the evening when the lights were on, saw them crossing the road together under the street lamp, their bodies leaning forward at the same angle, and walking on tiptoe. No one knew where they were going. Really they weren’t going anywhere in particular. They had been sitting at the café, nibbling pieces of sugar they had dipped in coffee, till Johnny said, “We’re being seen here too much, don’t you think, Charles?” And Charles said, “I think we ought to be seen at all the bars. We ought to go more often to the new bar.” So they had paid for their coffee and walked over to the side-street bar paneled in the old English style, with a good-natured English bartender, and sat together at a table listening to the careless talk of five customers at the bar, occasionally snickering out loud when a sentence overheard seemed incredibly funny. Stan Mason, an ingenuous heavy drinker, who had cultivated a very worldly feeling sitting at the same bars every night, explaining the depth of his sophistication to the same people, saw the boys holding their heads together and yelled, “What are you two little goats snickering at?” The boys stood up, bowing to him so politely and seriously he was ashamed of himself and asked them to have a drink with him. The rest of the evening they laughed so charmingly at his jokes he was fully convinced they were the brightest youngsters who had come to the Quarter in years. He asked the boys if they liked Paris, and smiling at each other and raising their glasses together they said that architecturally it was a great improvement over America. They had never been in New York or any other large American city but had no use for American buildings. There was no purpose in arguing directly with them. Charles would simply have raised his eyebrows and glanced slyly at Johnny, who would have snickered with his fingers over his mouth. Mason, who was irritated, and anxious to make an explanation, began talking slowly about the early block-like houses of the Taos Indians and the geometrical block style of the New York skyscrapers. For ten minutes he talked steadily about the Indians and a development of the American spirit. The boys listened politely, never moving their heads. Watching them, while he talked, Mason began to feel uncomfortable. He began to feel that anything he had to say was utterly unimportant because the two boys were listening to him so politely. But he finished strongly and said, “What do you think?”
“Do you really believe all that’s important?” Charles said.
“I don’t
know, maybe it’s not.”
“Well, as long as you don’t think it important,” Johnny said.
At home the boys sat on the edge of the bed, talking about Stan Mason and snickered so long they were up half the night.
They had their first minor disagreement in the Quarter one evening in November with Milton Simpson, a prosperous, bright and effeminate young American businessman who was living in Paris because he felt vaguely that the best approach to life was through all the arts together. He was secretly trying to write, paint and compose pieces for the piano. The boys were at a small bar with a floor for dancing and an American jazz artist at the piano, and Simpson brushed against Charles who, without any provocation at all, suddenly pushed him away. Simpson pushed too and they stood there pushing each other. Simpson began waving his arms in circles, and the man at the piano threw his arms around Charles, dragging him away. Neither one of them could have hurt each other seriously and everybody in the room was laughing at them. Finally Simpson sat down and Charles, standing alone, began to tremble so much he had to put his head down on the table and cry. His shoulders were moving. Then everybody in the room was sorry for Charles. Johnny, putting his arm around him, led him outside. Simpson, whose thin straight lips were moving nervously, was so impressed by Charles’s tears, that he and his wife followed them outside and over to the corner café where they insisted on sitting down with them at one of the brown oblong tables inside.
Simpson bought the boys a brandy and his wife, who was interested in the new psychology, began to talk eagerly with Charles, evidently expecting some kind of emotional revelation. The boys finished their brandies and Simpson quickly ordered another for them. For an hour the boys drank brandies and listened patiently and seriously to Simpson, who was talking ecstatically because he thought they were sensitive, sympathetic boys. They only smiled at him when he excitedly called them “sensitive organisms.” Charles, listening wide-eyed, was nervously scratching his cheek with the nail of his right forefinger till the flesh was torn and raw.
The Complete Stories of Morley Callaghan: Volume One Page 11
