“I know.”
“And if I get a job I’ll get married, and that’s that, and it’s all settled.”
“She wanted you to go across big, didn’t she?”
“I know, but mostly she wants to get married.”
The Doc, driving with one hand, put a cigarette in his mouth. “Well it’s your funeral,” he said.
“I know it, Doc, but I want to get it settled. See? And tonight sorta fixes it up for me with her. She won’t have no ambitions for me now, see?”
The Young Priest
Father Vincent Sullivan was only one of three curates at the cathedral but he had been there long enough to understand that some men and women of the parish deserved to be cultivated more intimately than others. He had social talent, too. At the seminary, four years ago, he had been lazy, good-natured, and very fond of telling long funny stories, and then laughing easily, showing his white teeth. He had full lips and straight black hair. But as soon as he was ordained he became solemn, yet energetic. He never told stories. He tried to believe that he had some of the sanctity that a young priest ought to have. At his first mass, in the ordination sermon, an old priest had shouted eloquently that a very young priest was greater and holier and more worthy of respect than anyone else on earth. Father Vincent Sullivan, hearing this, couldn’t believe it entirely, but it gave him courage even if it did make him more solemn and serious.
He still had his black hair and his clear skin and a charming, lazy, drawling voice, which was very pleasant when he was actually trying to interest someone. Since he had so much zeal and could be so charming he was a good man to send calling upon the men and women of the parish, seeking donations for various parish activities. The really important people in the congregation like Mrs. Gibbons, whom he bowed to every Sunday after eleven o’clock mass, he hardly ever met socially; they were visited usually by the priest, who sometimes had a Sunday dinner with them or a game of cards in the evening.
Father Sullivan had a sincere admiration for Mrs. Gibbons. Her donations were frequent and generous. She went regularly to communion, always made a novena to the little flower, St. Teresa. And sometimes in the summer evenings, when he was passing down the aisle from the vestry and it was almost dark in the cathedral, he saw this good woman saying a few prayers before the altar of the Virgin. Of course he hardly glanced at her as he passed down the aisle, his face grave and expressionless, but he thought about her when he was at the door of the church and wished that she would stop and talk to him, if he stayed there, when she passed out. She was the kind of woman, he thought, that all priests of the parish ought to know more intimately. So he did happen to be near the door when she passed and bowed gravely, but she went by him and down to the street hardly more than nodding. She was a large, plump, well-kept woman walking erectly and slowly to the street. Her clothes were elegant, her skin pink and fine. It was very satisfactory to think that such a well-groomed, dignified, and competent woman should appreciate the necessity of strict religious practice in her daily life. If he had been older and had wanted to speak to her he could readily have found some excuse, but he was young and fully aware of his own particular dignity. Honestly, he would rather have been the youngest priest at the cathedral at this time than be a bishop or a cardinal. It was not only that he always remembered the words of the old priest who had preached his ordination sermon, but he realized that he sometimes trembled with delight at his constant opportunity to walk upon the altar, and when hearing confessions he was scrupulous, intensely interested, and never bored by even the most tiresome old woman with idiotic notions of small sins. It exalted him further, even if it also made him a little sad, to see that older priests were more mechanical about their duties, and when he once spoke to Father Jimmerson about it, the oldest priest at the cathedral, the old man had smiled and sighed and said it was the inevitable lot of them all, and that the most beautiful days of his life had been when he was young and had known the ecstasy of being hesitant, timid, and full of zeal. Of course, he added, older priests were just as confident in their faith, and just as determined to be good, but they could not have the eagerness of the very young men.
One evening at about nine o’clock when Father Sullivan was sitting in the library reading a magazine the housekeeper came into the room and said that someone, phoning from Mr. Gibbons’ house, wanted to speak to a priest.
“Was any priest in particular asked for?” Father Sullivan said.
“No. The woman — I don’t know who she was — simply said she wanted to speak to a priest.”
“Then, I’ll speak to her, of course,” Father Sullivan said, putting aside his magazine and walking to the telephone. He was delighted at the opportunity of having a conversation with Mrs. Gibbons. He picked up the receiver and said, “Hello.”
A woman’s voice, brusque, practical, said, “Who’s that?”
“Father Sullivan,” he said encouragingly.
“Well, I’m Mrs. Gibbons’ sister-in-law, and I’m at her house now. Things have come to a pretty pass around here. If you’ve got any influence, you ought to use it. Just at present Mrs. Gibbons is broken up thinking she’s going to die and she’s been howling for a priest. There’s really nothing wrong with her, but if you’ve got any influence you ought to use it on her. She’s a terrible woman. Come over and talk to her.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure of what?”
“Sure that you’re not mistaken about Mrs. Gibbons?”
“Are you coming?”
“Oh, yes, at once,” he said.
He put on his hat and looked at himself in the hall mirror. Then he glanced at his hands, which were perfectly manicured and clean. His collar was spotless. The blood showed through his clear skin and his lips were very red.
As he walked along the street he was a little nervous because the woman had sounded so abrupt, and he was wondering uneasily if Mrs. Gibbons really was a terrible woman. There had been some rumors of a certain laxity in her life since her husband had either disappeared or deliberately gone away some time ago, but the parish pastor had shrugged his shoulders and spoken often of scandalmongers. Insinuations against the good name of Mrs. Gibbons, who, they knew, was one of the finest women of the parish, were in a measure an insinuation against the Church. Father Sullivan had decided some time ago that Mrs. Gibbons was really a splendid woman and a credit to any community.
It was a short walk from the cathedral to Mrs. Gibbons’ home. A light was on in the hall. A light was in the front room upstairs. Father Sullivan paused at the curb a moment, looking up at the house, and then walked quickly to the door, feeling aloof, dignified, and impressive, and at the same time vaguely eager.
He rang the bell. The door was opened wide by a woman, slim, brightly dressed, florid-faced, and with her hair dyed red, who stepped back and looked at him critically.
“I’m Father Sullivan,” he said apologetically but seriously.
“Yes, I see.”
“I believe Mrs. Gibbons wanted to see me.”
“Well, I don’t know whether she knows you or not,” the woman added doubtfully. “I’m her sister-in-law. I’m the one that phoned you.”
“I’ll see her,” he said with a kind of grave finality as he stepped into the house.
“I mean that I was going to talk to you first,” the red-headed woman said, “only it just happened that she feels broken up now about something, and it’s time for someone to give her a talking to.”
“I’ll talk to her,” he said. He didn’t know what he was expected to say.
The slim woman walked ahead upstairs and Father Sullivan followed. The door of the front room was open and the slim woman stood looking into the room. The light shone on her red hair. Father Sullivan was close behind and followed her into the room. Mrs. Gibbons was lying on a divan, a purple kimono thrown loosely around her. One of her plump arms was revealed as she held her head up resting on her elbow. Her plump body was hardly concealed under the kimono. She looked
depressed and unhappy as though she had been crying. When she saw Father Sullivan she didn’t even open her mouth, just shrugged her shoulders and held the same dejected expression. The red-headed slim woman stared at her alertly and then glanced at Father Sullivan, who was bending forward trying to attract Mrs. Gibbons’ attention while he got ready to speak in his slow, drawling, and pleasing voice. But then he noticed a beer bottle on the table close to the divan. Mrs. Gibbons was now looking at him curiously, and then she smiled slowly. “Can’t ask you to have a drink, Father,” she said. She was obviously thinking what a nice young fellow he was. Then she started to laugh a little, her whole body shaking.
“I thought you wanted to talk to him, Jessie,” the other woman said.
“I don’t think I do.”
“But you said you wanted to.”
“Father won’t mind; will you, Father?”
“Go on, talk to her, Father,” the redheaded woman said impatiently. “I’ve had a row with her and I’ve been trying to tell her what a trollop she is. She’s low, if anyone ever was. Now tell it to her.”
If Mrs. Gibbons had started talking to him Father Sullivan might not have been embarrassed, but as he looked at her, waiting, and saw her stretched out so sloppily and noticed again the beer bottle on the table, he felt he was going to hear something that would disgrace her and the parish forever. She kept on looking at him, her underlip hanging a little, her eyes old and wise. The red-headed woman was standing with one hand on her hip, her mouth drooping cynically at the corners. They were both waiting for him to say something. In the darkness of the confessional it would have been different, but now Father Sullivan felt his face flushing, for he couldn’t help thinking of Mrs. Gibbons as one of the finest women of the parish, and there she was stretched out like a loose old woman. He tried to hold his full red, lower lip with his white teeth. He felt humiliated and ashamed and they were both watching him. His nervous embarrassment began to hurt and bewilder him.
“If I can be of any assistance . . .”
They didn’t speak to him, just kept on looking at him steadily and he had a sudden nervous feeling that the red-headed woman might go out and leave him alone with Mrs. Gibbons.
Some words did actually come into his head, but Mrs. Gibbons, sitting up suddenly, stared at him and said flatly: “He’s too young. How do you expect me to talk to him?” Then she lay down again and looked away into the corner of the room.
The sister-in-law took hold of Father Sullivan firmly by the arm and led him out to the hall. “She’s right about that,” she said. “I thought so from the start.”
“There are some things that are hard to talk about, I know,” he said, flustered and ashamed. “If in her life . . . I mean I have the greatest faith in Mrs. Gibbons,” he said desperately. “Please let me go back and talk to her.”
“No, I sized up the situation and knew that once she got talking to you she’d pull the wool over your eyes.”
“I was just about to say to her —” Father Sullivan said, following her downstairs, and still trembling a little. “I know she’s a good woman.”
“No, you’re too young for such a job. And she hasn’t the morals of a tomcat.”
“I ought to be able to do something.”
“Oh no, never mind, thanks. She’s got over the notion she’s going to die. I could tell that when she shrugged her shoulders.”
“But please explain to me what she wanted to say to me,” he said. “I respect Mrs. Gibbons,” he added helplessly.
“It’s no use — you’re too young a man,” the woman said abruptly. “You wouldn’t be able to do anything with her anyway.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m awfully sorry,” he kept on saying. She had hold of his arm and was actually opening the front door. “Thanks for coming, anyway,” she said. “We’ve been rowing all afternoon and I told her plenty and I wanted someone else she respected to take a hand in it.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Was she feeling badly?”
“I came around here, as I do about once a month, to give her a piece of my mind, but she was all broken up. Something got into her.”
“Something must have happened, because she’s a fine woman. I know that.”
“You do, eh? Her daughter Marion has gone away with her young man Peter. They must have had an awful row here earlier in the evening.”
“I didn’t know the daughter very well,” the priest said.
“No? Well, it looks to me as if old Jess wanted to know Peter too well. That was the trouble. When I came around here she was lying down half dressed looking at herself in a hand mirror. What’s the matter with her? She’s got to grow old sometime. Thanks, though, for coming. Good night.”
“Good night. I’m sorry I couldn’t help her.”
It was a mild warm evening. He was walking very slowly. The cathedral spire stuck up in the night sky above all the houses in the block. He was feeling that he had been close to something immensely ugly and evil that had nearly overwhelmed him. He shook his head because he still wanted to go on thinking that Mrs. Gibbons was one of the finest women in the parish, for his notion of what was good in the life in the parish seemed to depend upon such a belief. And as he walked slowly he felt, with a kind of desperate clarity, that really he had been always unimportant in the life around the cathedral. He was still ashamed and had no joy at all now in being a young priest.
Mr. & Mrs. Fairbanks
In the afternoon sunlight, Mrs. Fairbanks and her husband were walking in the park. They had been married just a year. She was a small girl with fair bobbed hair, wearing a little tilted felt hat, who walked with a short light step. Her thin, boyish husband looked very tall beside her. They were walking close together as if sharing a secret that made them silent and a little afraid, but gradually an expression of uneasy discontentment settled on Mrs. Fairbank’s plump smooth face. Sometimes she glanced up at her husband, not knowing whether to be upset or pleased. He looked as if he wanted to go striding forward into the sunlight with a wide grin on his face.
“I don’t know why you seem so glad. Weren’t you happy as we were before?” she asked suddenly.
“Sure we were happy, and everything is still working along splendidly,” he said.
“In a way it would have been nice if everything could have remained as it was,” she said. “I don’t want to grow old.”
“Why should you grow old?” he said, bending down confidentially as if she were a little girl and didn’t quite know what she wanted. “You just wait a while. You just wait till you get used to the idea, then you’ll see what I mean.”
“Tell me why you feel so good.”
“I don’t know why. It just makes me feel more expansive, more abundant, a kind of full and overflowing feeling.”
“That’s very nice of you,” she said, teasing him. “You don’t have to put up with anything, though. You won’t have to look like me.”
“You just ought to see how you look, Helen,” he said earnestly. “Your face is soft and plump and kind of glowing, and your neck and shoulders are rounder and fuller than they ever were. You look lovely, Helen.”
“But I’m scared, Bill.”
“Why should you be scared? It’s happening all the time, isn’t it? It happens to nearly all women.”
“I know. But I’m a little coward, really I am. I can never stand anything. I’ll be terribly scared,” she said, hanging on to his arm. There was really a fear in her, a deep uneasiness mixed with wonder at what was taking place within her. She glanced up at Bill’s long face and smiled, for he couldn’t conceal his ridiculous pride in himself. “I don’t feel sure about anything,” she thought to herself. “We hadn’t counted on this at all. Everything will change now. The things we used to look forward to are already passing away.” For a few moments he walked along holding her arm, as if he never wanted her to get away. She looked around the park in the strong sunlight and smiled up innocently at her husband.
They smi
led at each other, went walking along the dry path, and Mrs. Fairbanks wondered if anyone passing would see her as Bill had seen her, glowing with contentment.
They were passing a bench by the walk where an old man with a red face, as if the blood had all gone to his head, was sitting. One half of the bench was shaded by his tired body. His hat was off and the sun was shining on straggly wisps of gray hair at his temples. One of his shoes was laced up with a piece of string. He was slouched back on the bench with his eyes closed, looking like a beggar who was too weary to beg. The moment Mrs. Fairbanks looked at him she forgot her own mild discontent. She stopped on the path, wanting to give something to the tired shabby man.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Only you can’t give it all to bums.”
“He looks so tired with his eyes closed and the sun shining,” she said. Smiling, she fumbled in her purse, feeling sure Bill wanted her to do anything that would make her happy. From her purse she took twenty-five cents and stepped over to the bench, saying to the man, “Please, here you are.” She was smiling broadly, quite pleased with herself. Lifting his head, the man opened his eyes and saw she was holding out her hand to him. He had pale blue watery eyes with red rims, and when he saw she was offering him money, he did not smile nor even open his mouth, he just looked at her steadily with a simple dignity and then turned away.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, drawing her hand back hastily.
The old man merely nodded his head as she stepped back to her husband, took hold of his arm, and tried to walk him away.
“I feel terrible, something terrible,” she said to Bill. A warm flush of color came into her face, and her head began to feel hot from the embarrassment. “The poor fellow, he wasn’t a beggar at all and I was insulting him like a clumsy stupid woman.” Mrs. Fairbanks felt completely humiliated, but her pride, too, was hurt and soon she began to resent this humiliation which was becoming like a heavy weight of dejection inside her. She dared not look round. “I feel terrible and I guess he feels terrible, too.”
The Complete Stories of Morley Callaghan: Volume One Page 17
