The Complete Stories of Morley Callaghan

by Callaghan, Morley; Atwood, Margaret;

  Louise Harshaw had never been to France but she talked about Paris as if she knew every boulevard, bistro, bal musette, and café, until she was ready to laugh at her own eagerness. On this night both the Harshaws seemed jubilant, as if they had suddenly settled all their important problems. Mr. Weeks couldn’t help asking, “What’s making you so happy tonight, Mrs. Harshaw?” and she burst out at once, “We’ve just decided we’ll never get anywhere in this country. We’re going to go away for good and live in Paris, aren’t we, Timothy?”

  Mr. Weeks looked at Timothy, who was sitting cross-legged on the bed, holding his silver flute loosely in his hand. The Harshaws had cut the posts off their bed so it would look more like a couch. “That’s right, Louise,” Timothy said, his face brightening. “There’s nothing here for us, Weeks. I ought to have seen that long ago. I’ll live as a translator in Paris. The main thing, though, is to get there.”

  “Are you going right away?”

  “Oh, no,” they both said together, “we’re awfully poor now.”

  “How are you going to do it, then?”

  “We’ll both get a job and work,” they said. “Then we’ll save.”

  The Harshaws went out every morning looking for work. At noontime they met in Childs’ restaurant and amused each other, mimicking the peculiar mannerisms of everyone they had encountered. They seemed to have all of the shining enthusiasm that makes every obstacle a stimulation. Timothy was the first to get a job, in the advertising and publicity department of a publishing house. The more he talked about it to Louise, the more he felt like celebrating, so he borrowed five dollars from the bank teller, who loaned it with reluctance, though he became more cheerful when Timothy, slapping him on the back, invited him to help spend the money. They went to a delicatessen store to buy some cheese. “People don’t seem to understand that a gentleman ought to know his cheeses every bit as well as his wines,” Timothy explained, and he bought brie, camembert, gorgonzola, munster, and gruyère. He also bought a bottle of red Italian wine. When they got home, Mr. Weeks thought Mrs. Harshaw might resent Timothy’s initial extravagance, but instead she moved around getting plates and glasses as though they were about to start playing a new, delightful game. It occurred to her, too, to phone her friend, Selma Simpson, who did publicity for a small theatrical producer, so they would have more of a party.

  That night the Harshaws talked a good deal about France. Timothy had been so happy at the Sorbonne. And, there were the trips you could take to places like Chartres: Louise was dying to see the cathedral.

  “We’d like to take over the whole darn tradition, if you see what we mean,” Timothy said, leaning forward.

  “It sounds swell. Maybe I’ll take a trip like that some day,” Mr. Weeks said. “When are you going?”

  “In the spring. Everybody goes to Paris in the spring — it’s the season. Why don’t you come with us?”

  “I may at that,” Mr. Weeks said, ashamed of himself for lying. Timothy was making forty dollars a week and they put ten in a bank that gave them a red bank book. In order that they would not sacrifice money on foolish pleasures, they decided to stay home at night and Timothy would teach Louise French. When they began the lessons, Louise learned rapidly. Timothy was full of joy, and they were both so pleased with themselves they thought their friend, Mr. Weeks, might like to take lessons, too. At first, Mr. Weeks tried seriously to speak French, but they were both so eager to help him he became self-conscious and made a joke of the whole business.

  In the second week of November Timothy lost his job at the publishing house, for a reason that perplexed and angered him. As he told it to Louise, walking up and down rubbing his hand through his hair, it seemed ridiculous. He had got into an argument with his boss about theosophy and had suggested that modern Americans might be the ancient Egyptians reincarnated. The boss, slamming his fists on the desk, had begun to tell Timothy everything that was wrong with him — when he wrote advertising, he couldn’t understand he was appealing to the masses; he was always making sly jokes for his own amusement; and anyway, it was obvious he couldn’t adapt himself to the routine of the office. Timothy was fired. “There was something underhanded about it, Louise. We didn’t seem to face each other like gentlemen at all.” He kept looking anxiously at his wife.

  Louise wanted to cry. Her face was white and pinched, as if once again in her life she had reached out and tried to touch something that had always eluded her. But she said earnestly, “It’s all right, Timothy. You can’t destroy your character for such people. I’ll get a job and we’ll go right on saving.”

  There were two difficult weeks when they hardly spent a cent for food, because Louise wouldn’t draw money out of the bank. They ate canned soups and cereals, and were most hungry when they talked about the good times they would have in Europe in the spring.

  Then they had an unbelievable piece of good fortune. They could hardly believe such luck: Louise’s friend, Selma, quit her job to get married, and she asked Louise if she would like to take it. Louise wouldn’t say anything; she kept swallowing hard till she went around to see the producer with Selma. He listened while Selma swore there wasn’t a girl like Louise in the whole country; then he smiled benevolently. Louise got the job.

  For a while the Harshaws were happier than they had been at any time since they were married; they had a splendid goal ahead of them — Europe, with a tradition and environment that would appeal to Timothy — and they had some money in the bank. Louise worked hard, rebuffed her sly, sentimental employer sweetly, and hurried home every night to Timothy, who cooked the dinner for her. He stood at the window waiting for her, with one of her aprons around his waist. He had taken a fancy to cooking.

  Toward the end of December, the Harshaws had the calmness and deep inner contentment of people who can see ahead clearly. They had one hundred and twenty dollars in the bank. They talked of going third-class on the boat. Whenever they talked for very long about it in the room, they became silent, almost hushed with expectancy, and then one night they put on their coats and hats and went out together to walk through the rain without talking at all. They went into a church and knelt with their heads down and prayed, and when they had finished praying, they sat there in the pew instead of going home. They sat there, close together.

  Then, Louise began to get very tired and nervous. Timothy noticed that she was sometimes short-tempered. When Selma, who often dropped in on them, came around intending to speak to him about Louise, he was so happy and confident he made Selma feel like an old chaperon who was not wanted, so she said: “Keep your eye on Louise, Timothy,” and looked at him searchingly. Timothy smiled, thanked her for her solicitude, and became silent and very worried.

  One night when Louise came home from work, she was so tired she couldn’t eat. She sat looking at Timothy with a kind of helpless earnestness, and then she almost fainted. When he was rubbing her forehead and her wrists, she told him she was going to have a baby, and she watched him with a dogged eagerness, her whole manner full of apology. At last he took a deep breath, and said, “Good, good. That gives a man a sense of completion. Let’s hope it’s a boy, Louise.” He became very gay. He played his flute for her. He explained he had bought a neat little machine for rolling his own cigarettes, and his good humor so pleased her she let herself whisper, “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could have the baby born in France?”

  She worked the rest of the winter, but in March she had to stop. The baby was born early one gray morning in May. Timothy had got a young obstetrical specialist who was willing to take the case without having Louise go to a hospital. It never occurred to Timothy that he would have to pay him. All that damp spring night the doctor and Timothy sat in the kitchen waiting. Timothy was polite, but he looked sick. With a mild graciousness, while the light overhead shone on his fair bright head, he talked about the Sorbonne, though sometimes he halted and listened for sounds from the other room. The doctor liked him and nodded his head patiently.

&
nbsp; At five o’clock in the morning, the doctor called Timothy into the other room, and he went in and kissed his wife. For a moment he was so relieved he could only grin without even thinking of the baby. Louise, looking waxen-faced and fragile, smiled at Timothy and said, “We’ve got a boy, even if we’re not in Paris, Timothy.”

  “It’s splendid,” he said, beaming with pride and relief and making her love him. He bent down and whispered, “Last time I was in Paris in the spring, it was cold and damp. The fall is a far better time, dear. Paris’ll wait. It’ll always be there for us.”

  Then the doctor beckoned to Timothy and they went back to the kitchen. The doctor said, “I might as well tell you, Mr. Harshaw, you’ll have to give your wife your undivided attention for a while. However, I congratulate you.” They shook hands very solemnly. “Remember, be cheerful. Don’t let this interfere with your wife’s plans. Do what you want to do.”

  “We were going to go to Europe. We won’t be able to do that for a while.”

  “No. Not for a while, of course.”

  “Of course not. Not for months, anyway,” Timothy said. Then they were both silent.

  “If I can be of any assistance at all,” the doctor said diffidently. Timothy, reflecting a moment, said eagerly, “By the way, tell me, do you know a good indoor tennis court? When Mrs. Harshaw gets up, I’d like her to take exercise. We don’t want her to lose her shape, you know. She wouldn’t want this to make any difference.”

  “I’ll let you know if I hear of one,” the doctor said, as he picked up his bag to leave.

  Outside, the gray, misty morning had become a morning of fine, thin rain. On the street the doctor stopped suddenly, listening. He stood looking back at Timothy’s place, hearing faint flute music.

  A REGRET FOR YOUTH

  The first time Mrs. Jerry Austin’s husband went away, she cried and wrote a long letter home, but in two months’ time he came back. They had dinner and agreed never to quarrel again and he promised not to feel restless any more. The second time he left her, she didn’t bother looking for a job. She told the landlady, Mrs. Oddy, that Mr. Austin had gone traveling and was doing well. Mrs. Oddy, who had red hair, a toothy accent and a loud voice, said that whenever Mr. Oddy did any traveling she liked to keep him company, but after all, it was none of her business.

  Mrs. Austin had paid a month’s rent in advance. She was friendly with Mrs. Oddy, who occasionally invited her to go motoring. Mr. and Mrs. Oddy sat in the front seat and Mrs. Austin sat in the back seat. Mr. Oddy was in the civil service, a good job, but his wife got twice as much money from her three rooming houses. Mr. Oddy always drove the car as fast as possible along Lakeshore Drive and Mrs. Oddy made a long conversation over her shoulder about a trip she had planned for Europe next year.

  In the long summer evenings Mrs. Austin was sometimes lonesome. She sat on the front step till dusk talking to Mrs. Oddy, then she went upstairs to her kitchen to sit down at the window and look out through the leaves on the tree across the street to the well-kept school ground, the shadowed building and the few stars coming out over the roof of the school. Four men standing underneath a lamppost at the corner were trying to make harmony with their voices, but only one fellow had a good voice, the others were timid. She listened, leaning out of the window, hoping they would follow through with the next piece instead of laughing in the middle of it. She heard a loud laugh and the men moved farther down the street, singing softly, lazily. Disappointed, she pulled down the blind and turned on the light.

  She heard the Oddys talking downstairs, Mrs. Oddy’s voice loud and sharp because her husband was a little deaf. She talked to everybody as though they were a little deaf. That was mainly the trouble with Mrs. Oddy. Mrs. Austin got out her ironing board, adjusting the electric plug in the wall. She patted the board two or three times, hesitating till she decided she didn’t feel like ironing at the moment, so she went to her bedroom and looked at herself in the large expensive mirror her mother had given her. Mrs. Austin patted her hair, the knot at the back of the neck, and the wave at the side. She had fine, fair hair. Her nose wasn’t a good nose and she was too plump for her height. She was only thirty but looked at least five years older. Her legs were short and plump but shaped nicely at the ankles. She wanted to get thin but couldn’t diet for more than five days at a time.

  She combed her hair carelessly, staring in the mirror, not concentrating but simply passing time, pleasant thoughts in her head. In the next room she heard a noise and knew the young man, Mr. Jarvis, would be going out soon. She hoped he would speak to her as he passed the open door and maybe ask her to go for a walk. Before Jerry went away she had thought of Mr. Jarvis only occasionally, after a quarrel usually, and had been unhappy when she found herself thinking too often of him. Now that Jerry had left her she enjoyed having long imaginary conversations with the young man and was glad her ankles were slender. She was at least eight years older than he, and really didn’t know him very well but liked his small hands, and his slim body, and was sure he had a good education, and would probably wear spats in the winter. Once she had given him a cup of tea and another time had made his bed. She liked making his bed. Vaguely she thought of Jerry, missing him merely because she was used to him. The idea of his walking in the door didn’t excite her at all.

  She knotted her hair again and returned to the ironing board. Mr. Jarvis, going along the hall, passed the open door and called, “How’s the little lady tonight?”

  “Fine and dandy,” she said.

  He passed quickly and she caught only a glimpse of him, but his shoes were shiny and his suit well pressed. She thought of going downstairs and suggesting to Mrs. Oddy that they ask the young man to go motoring with them some night, but realized that Mr. Oddy, who didn’t like Jarvis, would say something unpleasant. Oddy had often said the young fellow was too deep for him.

  At the end of the month Mrs. Austin had a hard time paying the rent. The landlady suggested Jerry was indeed a peculiar traveling man, and the suggestion irritated Mrs. Austin, so she took twenty-one dollars out of the bank and for three dollars sold a small bookcase to a second-hand dealer who called at the house once a week for rags, bones, and bottles. At four o’clock in the afternoon, Mrs. Oddy, not quite so friendly now, came upstairs to examine critically Mrs. Austin’s furniture. She offered to buy the mirror because it was an awkward size and not much use to anybody. Mrs. Austin said her husband might object. Mrs. Oddy eagerly disagreed for she had been waiting a long time to talk plainly about Mr. Austin. She talked rapidly, waving her arms till Mrs. Austin said, “For heaven’s sake, Mrs. Oddy, you’ll have a hemorrhage if you don’t watch out.”

  But afterward she cried, eager to leave the city and go home, but was ashamed to tell the folks Jerry had left her again. Besides, Jerry would be back soon. Stretched out on the bed, she dabbed her nose with a handkerchief and was glad she had at least been dignified with Mrs. Oddy, practically insisting the woman mind her own business. She got up and looked out of the window at the clean streets in the sunlight. She decided to go out for a walk; many people passing on the street would be company for her.

  She took off her housedress and before putting on her blue serge suit with the coat that was a little tight, she stood in front of the mirror, patting her sides and hips critically, dissatisfied. She needed another corset, she thought. She had only a few dollars in the bank, and a little food in the house, but was worried mainly about having a good strong corset. She nodded vigorously at her image in the mirror, many angry words that she might have used to Mrs. Oddy coming into her head.

  It was a hot day, there was bright sunlight and men were carrying their coats. She walked all the way downtown. In one of the department stores she bought a corset and arranged to have it sent C.O.D. It was five o’clock before she started to walk home. At her corner she saw Mr. Jarvis getting off the streetcar. He raised his hat, slowing down so that they could walk home together. She talked eagerly about Mrs. Oddy and about being a littl
e lonesome. He had many splendid words he could use carelessly. Nearly all the words pleased her and made her feel happy. He was carrying a yellow slicker though it didn’t look like rain, carrying it neatly hooked under his arm close to his hip. She liked his clean fedora at a jaunty angle on his head and was sorry his mouth turned down a little at the corners.

  Opposite the Women’s Christian Temperance Union they turned the corner. Some boys were playing catch on the road and over in the schoolyard girls were playing baseball.

  “I don’t think I’ll go right up,” she said. “I think I’ll sit on the steps a while and watch the kids play.”

  “Want some company?” He grinned at her.

  “Oh, I nearly always like company.”

  They sat on the stone alongside the steps. Mr. Jarvis went on talking, enjoying his own jokes and Mrs. Austin’s laughter. For a while she tried watching the girls playing, her eyes following white and red blouses and light and dark skirts on the green grass across the road, and she listened to high-pitched shouting, but losing interest in the game, she wondered how she could keep him talking.

  She saw Mr. Oddy turn the corner, a paper under his arm. He came along the street, a big man. He turned up the walk. He nodded curtly and went in the house.

  “That guy’s an egg,” Mr. Jarvis said.

  “A what?”

  “Boiled a little too long.”

  “I don’t like him much myself.”

  Mr. Jarvis, getting up, held open the door, and followed her upstairs where he smiled good-naturedly and said good evening. She heard him going downstairs.

  She took off her hat and coat and smiled at herself in the mirror. She fingered her hair. For the first time in months she looked closely at her hair and was glad it was so nice. She smiled and knew she wouldn’t feel lonesome for some time. She moved around the room glancing in the mirror to catch glimpses of herself, pretending she was not alone. She ate some supper and found herself comparing Mr. Jarvis with Jerry. She didn’t think of Jerry as her husband, simply as a man she had known a long time before he had gone away.