It's Never Over

by Callaghan, Morley; Snider, Norman;

  “I’ll have another spot, if you please,” John said.

  They had gone so far into the conversation, John, looking at him intently, felt they must go on with it at once. The feeling was there in both of them, terrifying them, and John wanted to go on with the conversation. “It’s Isabelle, he said, “I know it’s something about Isabelle.”

  “Of course, I was an old friend of the family,” the priest said apologetically.

  “So was I.”

  “I’ve just got to go on talking. I hardly know what I’m saying at all, but Isabelle’s gone all to pieces. It’s rotten, because there’s nothing left for her now. She knows how it is with her: I mean she knows all about the sense of proportion. Some girls never think of sin. Isabelle has thought all the time about the sin. There’s the complete moral prostration . . . you know she’ll go on trying to lose her immortal soul. I think she wants to. That’s terrible, you know. Don’t you see that, John?”

  “She’ll try to find a way.”

  “She’ll get so low she’ll be finally satisfied.”

  “But it’s the two of them together. Fred, and now the way she’s going,” John said.

  “It’s worse about her.”

  “Why does she have to go on like this?” John said, standing up, staring at the priest, suspecting he was deliberately concealing a solution to a problem that had been troubling him a long time. “That’s what I want to know.” There were no sounds in the house. The only light in the room was one small electric bulb. Outside, on the sidewalk, someone began to shovel the snow, the steel shovel scraping regularly on the asphalt, gratingly. The smell of gas was growing stronger in the room now the windows were closed: the smell of gas escaping as if it had been there and remained faintly in the air.

  “Sit down, my boy,” the priest said.

  “I’m sorry, but what you were saying was exciting me.”

  “I shouldn’t be talking about it at all.”

  “We both feel a bit the same.”

  “I daresay,” the priest said, looking intently at his fingers spread out on the table, obviously trying not to go on talking. Taking a big white handkerchief from his pocket he began to mop his head, and said suddenly, angrily, “But wasn’t I in on it enough? Did she think I couldn’t forget Fred’s white face, me standing beside him there on the scaffold?”

  “I don’t know. What do you mean?”

  The priest, regarding him mildly, his head on one side, said simply: “Isabelle came to confession to me the other day.” On his face the simple expression changed gradually, his forehead was lined and he frowned, shaking his head slowly. “But she must have known I’d know her. Why did she have to come to me?” he said quietly and simply. John hardly spoke, embarrassed because the priest was actually talking about someone’s confession and he would be sorry afterward. Suddenly, John said loudly, leaning forward: “You want to know why Isabelle went to confession to you, do you?”

  “Eh, eh, what’s this? My God, what am I talking about?”

  “I’ll tell you. She wanted to get hold of you, too. You’ve got to feel the way it is with her, do y’see?” Tilting back in his chair he began to laugh loudly, foolishly. “That was neat of her, wasn’t it? In that way she just took another hold on you. You’ve felt how it is with her and now you’ll never forget it.” Trying to stop laughing foolishly he couldn’t get a deep breath and only shook his head.

  “You think so?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Oh, this is silly. What am I talking about?” Father Mason took another drink from the bottle on the table and stood up slowly. “I ought to be going home at once,” he said. The color was going out of his face and, moving in the room, he lurched to one side, reaching out abruptly, holding on to the back of a chair. Momentarily he stood there, annoyed by his lack of balance, and moved with slow dignity toward his hat and coat, tossed over the bed. His face was expressionless; he was concentrating only on his coat and hat. “How is Lillian?” he said, fumbling with his coat.

  “Fine, Father.”

  “That’s good. She’s a lovely character and ought to be a Catholic.”

  “I’ll tell her.”

  “Do so. What about you? Oh sure, you’re all right. What am I talking about?”

  John helped him with his coat and hat and offered to go home with him, knowing how important it was he should appear dignified and no one in the neighborhood see him. If Father Mason ever thought anybody had seen him slightly intoxicated he would be unhappy for weeks, hardly able to sleep for a long time. So John took hold of him by the arm and they walked downstairs together. It was harder walking outside because the snow was packed down tightly on the sidewalk, and lurching, their feel slipped.

  “Am I walking quite all right?” the priest asked.

  “Yes, Father.”

  “You’re a good fellow, John.”

  They had to walk over to the lighted corner to get a taxi-cab, and standing there, holding on to each other’s arm tightly, till one came down the street, John felt sympathetic and friendly. He helped Father Mason into the cab and decided to go home with him. He didn’t want anyone to notice the priest walking into the house, if he lurched at all.

  A light was in the front hall of the priest’s house. Arm in arm, they went up the sidewalk, walking firmly and easily, and John left him in the hall, hardly waiting to shake hands, closing the door quickly because Father Mason would be embarrassed, apologizing. It was better to leave him there so he would not have to think of anything before going to bed.

  Walking home, John thought of Isabelle, the feeling of resentment growing stronger all the time as he walked faster.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The day Lillian came back after the Christmas week John received a letter from Father Mason, a straight-forward simple letter asking him if he would be good enough to write and tell him what had happened after he had started to drink the other night. His mind had been unable to retain a single impression of anything they had said after drinking in the room, though he had a vague feeling he had been in some way ridiculous. He didn’t want to be a bother, he said in the letter, but would like it if John would tell whether he had got home in good condition, and if anybody on the street had seen him. The letter had a postscript adding he had resolved never to touch strong liquor again.

  John, answering the letter at once, declared they had talked pleasantly in his room, mentioning occasionally Fred Thompson, and he had decided to go home with him, not because he was too unsteady, but there was a possibility he might slip on the sidewalk. And he tried to make it very clear that Father Mason hadn’t said anything he need feel ashamed of, and no one had seen him on the street, and it had been easy get ing into the house. John avoided mentioning any incident that would have made the priest uneasy, for he liked and admired him and wanted him to have confidence.

  It was an effort being good-tempered, writing the letter. On his bed, waking up, he looked for the bedbugs that had bitten him on the chest. His chest was all red from scratching in the night. Before Mrs. Stanley brought him the letter he had been sitting on the side of the bed, wondering how to be assertive without provoking a quarrel and leaving the house. The room was close to downtown, and he felt he would not get another one so cheaply. The notion of spending more money for a room he could not tolerate. It was almost part of the motivating force in his whole plan to remain in the cheap room until ready to do something decisive. So he went downstairs carrying in his hand the letter he had written to Father Mason, and met with Mrs. Stanley in her kitchen. Bed-bugs were intolerable, he suggested mildly, and was sure it was accidental that they were in the house of such a splendid woman. At first she was outraged, talking rapidly, and he almost forgot why he was standing in the kitchen, looking at her with his mouth open, ready to leave at once. Mrs. Stanley was indignant, thinking he wanted to move away with paying a week’s room rent: that was the trouble: and discovering he preferred to stay in the house she got into a jolly mood, refusing
to take his complaint seriously, as she waved her palm at him. Exasperated, he pulled off his tie, opening his shirt at the throat, showing her the red marks from the bites. For the first time she seemed to understand what he was talking about. “You must have brought them here yourself,” she said quickly, then added hastily she would put a steel bed with a new spring in his room, if he would stay.

  They shook hands warmly and she waved her palm at him again and he went out of the house, happy and certain he had in some indefinite way saved a lot of money. It was necessary for him to have stability and not move again till really ready.

  That evening he was alone with Lillian and held on to her tightly, for he had not seen her all week, and wanted to make love at once. Impatiently he waited while she talked of many things, and the eagerness slowly went out of him. Smiling wistfully, she said fondly, “We do love each other, don’t we John?” and then cried a little. He was eager to comfort her, but her thoughts were beyond him, her sorrow was something he did not understand. All evening they were together in the apartment, attentively reassuring each other they were very much in love. Sometimes he talked to her irritably, observing by small gestures her determination to please him. Sometimes she was too serious, ready to talk, and then a little amused at herself. Patiently she sat down beside him and said, “You know what I’ve been thinking, John?”

  “What in God’s name has been bothering you?”

  “I’ve been thinking I’m bothered by the feeling I can’t help remembering thoughts I had, old thoughts I had before we began to love each other, thoughts of other people.” She was talking quietly with so much assurance, he did not contradict her, merely looking at her face, watching her lips moving. “Well, that’s a thought you oughtn’t to have,” he said, “but I don’t want it to get stronger. I think I know what you mean, but you be fair while with me, and even when you’re alone try and think of me, will you?”

  “I think of you all the time, John.”

  “Not in the right way.”

  “I know. It bothers me.”

  She put her arms around him, hugging him and said she honestly believed they could be happy together. Excitedly she talked about a plan for celebrating the new year: they did not want to go to one of the hotels: they were meeting Paul Ross and a girl of his; the four of them were going to a supper dance out at the pavilion by the lake where ice was piled along the shore, and then to a party till dawn.

  So on New Year’s Eve they went with Paul Ross out to the pavilion by the lakefront. Paul’s girl, small and neat, with a bright, cruel face, was named Geraldine, a good-humoredly bawdy girl, shouting all the time she wished she had been born a writer so she could write like Rabelais. Ross was very proud of her and later on, sitting down, eating, he talked to her wittily, prodding her, till she shouted at him, making her voice heard above the clatter of rattles, whistles, and the orchestra, then he smiled at Lillian and John. “That’s the kind of girl to have for the evening,” he said.

  Dancing, they drank and were happy. The piled wine bottles underneath the table. Lillian was so happy she threw her arms around John at midnight when everybody stood up and she kissed him and many women laughed at her.

  They left the pavilion to go to the party in the apartment house on one of the streets leading up from the lake, twenty minutes’ walk away, and John suggested they walk along the boardwalk, though it was snowing hard, and they were all enthusiastically glad he had thought of it. Earlier in the evening when they entered the dance pavilion, it had not been snowing but was very cold. Now it was snowing, hard thick flakes of snow falling fast and carried away in the strong wind. They were walking along the boardwalk by the lake, past the bleak frames of the stands and the amusement park used only in the summertime, and they heard the lake waves tossing against the breakwater farther out and rol ing up to the icy shore. Ice was piled all the way along the shore, down from the boardwalk. Out over the lake it was very black, and passing under one of the streetlights all the snow was slanting in the light, slanting in from the blackness out over the sounding lake. The wind was driving the snow in from the lake and whirling it along the slippery boardwalk, slippery because the snowflakes hardened before hitting the ground. Ice spots on the walk and snow sweeping over, make walking difficult. It felt colder than it had been all winter. They were walking four abreast along the boardwalk, singing a song and trying to make their voices sound loud and important above the sound of the wind, and Lillian impatiently ran on ahead, singing at the top of her voice. John went on walking beside Paul, his chin tucked down in his coat, his hands in his pockets, listening to Geraldine saying she did not like the snow much and wished they had taken a taxi. On ahead, Lillian was still singing, and John suddenly left the others, running on, catching up with her, hoisting her high up on his shoulder, singing with her, then turning around and walking backward, waving to Paul and his girl, who began to run toward them with their heads down. Lillian was sitting contentedly on his shoulder looking out over the lake, hardly talking by the time Paul caught up with them. They went on walking like this a few paces, and she slid down from his shoulder, and walked quietly beside him. Passing under a streetlight he saw that her face was tucked down into the collar of her fur coat.

  Suddenly she looked up at him and said, smiling faintly: “It’s very fine out here in the wind and snow, isn’t it?”

  “It’s great when we’re feeling warm inside from the liquor,” he said.

  “You know what I’m thinking?”

  “No.”

  “What a pity it is that poor Isabelle is home in bed and sick when she might be out here.”

  “I thought you had promised not to mention her to me at all. I thought we weren’t going to talk about her.”

  “Oh, don’t be a sorehead. It’s New Year’s Eve.”

  They had turned up a side street now, walking away from the lake. The apartment house was at the head of the street. It had turned cold so suddenly over night the ice and now had hardened on the branches of the trees and on the corners and walls of the houses. Yesterday’s snow had been soft and melting, now it was hard, swirling around their feet, and branches of trees were white to the tips. A policeman, standing on the corner, swinging his arms across his chest to keep warm, looked at them doubtfully as they passed him. His ears looked bit and red. Lillian yelled at him, “Happy New Year, old boy,” and he turned suddenly, waving his arms at them as he walked along the street. The policeman began to walk very fast as if in a great hurry, and it was too bad he had no place to go.

  John was anxious to get into shelter and express the thoughts that were making him forget the weather. He was irritated because Lillian had talked about Isabelle, and he had decided to tell her about Father Mason and how she had worried him. The wind was driving the snow against his eyes, and his felt hat, pulled down awkwardly over his ears, was all out of shape. They were puffing, the hot breath from the mouths blown over their shoulders.

  At the entrance to the apartment house, Paul and Geraldine went ahead on the stair and John said: “Just a minute, you go ahead, I want to speak with Lillian.”

  “Not here,” she said.

  “Yes, here.”

  “What about?”

  “I want to speak to you about Isabelle.”

  “More of your mania again. I’m tired of it.”

  “No listen.” He told her quickly of the evening with Father Mason and how Isabelle had gone to confession and the priest was sure she had deliberately selected him to tell him of the way it was with her, so she would startle and bewilder him. And he told her Father Mason was sickened, certain of her deliberate degradation. They were standing in the lighted vestibule breathing heavily. Snow, melting on John’s face, ran in small streams down his neck and under his collar while he wiped his cheek with his glove. He took off his glove quickly and held her hand.

  “She simply wanted to go to confession,” Lillian said nervously, beginning to pull off her gloves.

  “No, maybe yes. But
she wanted to go to him.”

  “No, she’s been in bed and sick and thinking of dying and wanted to go to confession. She always was religious.”

  “Do you know why she wanted to go to him?” he said, holding on to her wrist tightly, almost shaking her, and staring at her.

  “No.”

  “She wanted to draw him into it. He had been a part of it, do you see, and she didn’t want him to get away from it as long as she had it to think of.”

  “No, I tell you, John.”

  “Yes, we’re all a part of it,” he said, squeezing her hand, till she winced, pulling it away. “We’re all part of it, and we can’t get away from it.”

  Nervously she watched him, the muscles on her face near the corners of her mouth twitching, afraid he had suddenly gone out of his mind, and scared of the uneasiness in her own thoughts. The wind could not reach them in the sheltered doorway, and melting snow fell in drops from their faces. The wind blowing the snow down the street no longer touched them. John, his arm on her shoulder, pulled her toward him, bending over her while drops of water fell from the brim of his had on to her hair and into her eyes.

  “She won’t let us get away from it,” he said.

  “I am away from it.”

  “She’s got hold of us. She’s got hold of you and me and all of us, and we have to share it with her. I tell you she owns us. She’s got possession of us. That’s what she wanted. Slowly, in her own way she’s taken possession of us.”

  “I’m away from it.”

  “No. It’s a kind of movement all around us. She’s drawn us into it. She’s holding us. She won’t let us go.”

  “Stop it, do you hear? I don’t want to listen. I want to go upstairs. Let me go. You’re crazy.”

  “No, you’ve got to listen now.”

  She said suddenly: “You know what the matter is. You’re jealous and a bit crazy. You know how fond I was of Fred Thompson and you know how I love to think of him now.”