The Complete Stories of Morley Callaghan

by Callaghan, Morley; Atwood, Margaret;

  “You won’t be here to see it. You’ll be deported,” Ogilvie said, taunting him.

  “Deport me. Who? That crazy guy?”

  “It’s a good idea, and he’d have lots of support.”

  “Who can Lane count on?”

  “Who can you count on?”

  “I can count on Mollie Morris.”

  “Mollie Morris,” Ted said incredulously.

  “Yeah, Miss Morris. She’s in my corner. With her behind me, to hell with Harry Lane,” and he laughed defiantly. The surprise in Ogilvie’s eyes delighted him. I’ll be back in Dorfman’s after the fight, he thought.

  ✧ XXII ✧

  All night Mike lay awake twitching like a middle-aged man dreading the future, and in the dark he heard voices repeating, “Kicked out of Dorfman’s just like a bum. Kicked out of Dorfman’s . . .” But the night was long, and in moments of dreadful clarity, free of the tossing and twitching, he saw his Dorfman disgrace as a big step toward his ruin, for Singerman, hearing of it, would believe, of course, like everybody else, that he had actually had a hand in the beating, and say his advice had been answered with violence. As a businessman, Singerman might say he couldn’t afford to be associated with an old fighter who was an outcast from a place where the best people went. “I won’t be an outcast,” Mike said so loudly that his own voice in the darkness startled him and he sat up in bed. Then he heard a cat in the lane behind the building. The window was open a few inches. The weeds that bothered his hay fever grew in the lane. Again he heard the cat dragging at the lid of the garbage pail. The lid clattered and rolled and he jumped up, slammed the window shut, then he clenched his big fists with the broken knuckles and stood in a trance for a long time.

  At four o’clock, the bells began to chime in the monastery down the street and he went to bed and lay in the dark counting the bells, hoping sleep would come to him when the monks had done all their praying. But at five there were more bells, and Harry Lane seemed to be ringing them wildly and happily.

  In the morning he was so tired he felt sick, and he went down to the shop and told Willie he had a headache, and needed some sleep. All afternoon he stayed in the office. He stayed there till nine in the evening, then he went upstairs and into the room where his father sat by the window, the pencil stuck between the thumb and forefinger, the swollen hand resting on the big pad. “Hi there, papa,” he said, patting him on the shoulder affectionately as he looked at the little lines and scratches on the pad. His father’s one good eye was blinking at him fiercely. Tonight he longed to believe there was more than intelligence and understanding in that gray eye and that his father could see how worried he was. Day after day he had been talking to his father about the coat and Harry Lane just as candidly as he might have talked to himself.

  “It’s still that Harry Lane,” he said, walking around the room, his hands linked behind his back. “I’m to keep out of Dorfman’s. I’m thrown out of Dorfman’s. Imagine — the disgrace. I don’t know what I’ve done,” he said sighing. “I honestly don’t. In this little thing wouldn’t you think people would stand behind me? All this snickering at me. Why do they want to believe I got Conlin to lift the coat? Why believe that I had Lane beaten up? What are they trying to do to me? Nobody believes me. Why are the facts all against me? What is there about me now . . . now . . . that makes them snicker? What do I have to do to get someone to believe me?”

  Stopping by the window he pondered, looking down at the street lights and hearing all the familiar street sounds coming through the open window; the voices of passing people in the warm sultry night, the voices sounding loud, then the rattle of the trolley, then the cars, always the cars.

  “Singerman’s car’ll be stopping out there tomorrow or the next day,” he said, turning again to his father. “He’ll hear about me being told to keep out of Dorfman’s. It’ll mean a lot to him. He’s apt to drop me. What’ll I do?” Suddenly he banged his fists together. “Where’s the justice in people? Everybody could see the terrible injustice of Scotty going to jail and killing himself, and Lane going free, and now the same Harry Lane, waving that coat around, ruins my character and business, my life — he tortures me — why don’t they see the injustice of it for me? Do I have to kill myself to get some respect? A few months ago they froze Lane out. Their sense of justice! Is it there for me now when he turns on me? Do they freeze him out? They laugh and they needle me. I’m everybody’s pin cushion. I’m just about off my rocker. Maybe compared with Lane I’m an ignorant man, but I know what’s going on his crazy mind. He’s in disgrace. I was Scotty’s friend. This little quarrel about the lining — I give him this big guilt feeling. He’s taking it all out on me. Everybody can see it, and everybody should be with me. Why don’t they believe me? What do I have to do?”

  Facing his father, his hands out, while the one eye blinked fiercely, he waited, telling himself there was understanding, above all belief in the one eye, and then as the eye went on blinking at him it seemed to mock all the candor and hope in his heart. Good God, he thought, the only one who would believe me doesn’t hear anything I say, and he tried to laugh, but his face only twisted into a cracked despairing smile, and he went over to the window and sat down, leaning back with his eyes closed.

  Suddenly he sat up, leaning forward, sure he saw his mistake; he hadn’t been acting like an innocent, indignant good man who was being outraged. Like a fool he had been acquiescing in Harry Lane’s antics. Like an apologetic fool he had been sitting around hoping he would be believed, a weak man without the courage in his heart to be silent, or the honest rage to demand respect.

  But that night at Dorfman’s, Mike thought, when he had thrown it at Harry that he had ruined Scotty, he had put himself above Harry openly and with the straightforward courage that other people lacked who shared his resentment. Now, when he himself was being ruined by Harry, they waited to see what he, who had had the courage to speak out, would do. They had waited a little while, then they had begun to laugh at him, sure he was bluffing about everything, bluffing about his indignation over Scotty’s death, and his denunciation of Harry, bluffing to hide his big bluff, the mistake he had made over the coat. “Everybody’s waiting. Well, they don’t need to wait any longer. I’ll get that coat. I’ll tear it off his back,” he said, jumping up. “I’ll show them what I am,” and he banged his fists together as though he had boxing gloves on.

  His father’s eye, still blinking wildly, followed him to the door. “I’m going down to the store, Mrs. McManus,” he called, and he hurried downstairs, opened his shop, went back to his office and picked up the phone, called Dorfman’s and asked the girl on the switchboard if Harry Lane had come in. He hadn’t, she said, so in a nice friendly tone he asked her if she could give him Harry’s address. In a minute she gave him the rooming house address on Mountain Street.

  For a while he sat quiet and still at the desk, a hard smile on his face, his fingers drumming on the desk, then a tightness and tension gripped his whole body in the joy of knowing he had the strength to do what he had to do. Suddenly he got up, went to the window and looked at the street lights; a light in Harry’s room would tell him whether Harry was in. He didn’t want to go to the house and miss him and have someone say that he was looking for him.

  Then he heard the office buzzer that was connected with the apartment; a long buzz, then a series of short ones. Afraid for his father, he ran out and went leaping up the stairs, filled with dread. At the head of the stairs was Mrs. McManus, pale, and beckoning nervously.

  “What’s the matter, Mrs. McManus?”

  “He wrote something,” she said, trying to smile. “It upset me, Mr. Kon,” and he knew then by her stark astonishment that in spite of what she had said day after day she had never expected the old man to communicate with anybody again.

  “What did he write?”

  “It’s right there on the pad,” she said, following him into the room. “I came in to fix him up and there it was. Just two words . . .”


  Grabbing the pad, he knocked the pencil from his father’s fingers, but he could hardly read the two words, the letters were so crooked and faintly marked.

  “It’s different this time, it is something, it is two words,” he said exultantly. “That first word is — what is it?” His hand was trembling so badly now he could hardly make out the letters. “The other word — Not. It must be Not. Not, is that what you thought it was, Mrs. McManus?” He felt wildly hopeful that the life he had wanted to have with his father would soon begin.

  “I don’t know,” she whispered, and then they both stared at the old man sitting there lifelessly, his bright eye fixed straight ahead. “What does it mean?” she asked, still shaken.

  “I — I don’t know. He used to say religious things,” Mike said uneasily.

  “Oh, I see,” Mrs. McManus said, sighing with relief. “Well, I was so excited myself. From now on I’ll feel different about him. Why, we’ll have to watch what we say, won’t we, Mr. Kon? Oh, dear,” and she went back to the kitchen.

  “I knew you were with us, papa,” Mike said, his hand on his father’s shoulder and tears in his eyes.

  Still shaken he sat down, the page from the pad in his hand, and again he tried to make out the words. The first letter of the first word could be a J and then a U, and he pondered. All week he had been talking to the old man about the injustice of the whole thing, and the two words could be a try at a sentence — justice not — then he remembered that years ago when he had been sore at the old man for being content to be a newsboy, the old man used to say, “The justice of a man’s lot is hidden from him.” The old man could still be having these thoughts. I’m the best judge of that right now, Mike thought, and he looked again at the writing. The word could be Judge — Judge not. The same idea, about the injustice of the whole thing. Bewildered he turned to his father. Do you want me to close down my shop and knuckle under to Harry? I know you don’t, papa. I don’t quite know what you mean.

  Then he told himself the written words were intended to be some kindly comforting remark of a general nature that his father used to make about everybody, to hold his own life together and give him peace of mind. He told this to himself, knowing that if he sat there brooding he would feel handcuffed, just when he had freed himself by seeing his mistake, and he got up quickly to go out looking for Harry Lane.

  When he looked back he saw the pencil lying on the floor and he picked it up and put it carefully between his father’s fingers, then he ran down the stairs.

  He went over to the rooming house on Mountain Street and Harry wasn’t in. He phoned Dorfman’s, he tried the Tahiti, he tried to recall where Annie Laurie was living now and couldn’t and just before midnight he climbed the long stairs to the Dark Venus on St. Catherine where Harry used to go a lot.

  To the left of the door were the tables, the dance floor and the band and to the right, across the wide expanse of broadloom, was the bar of studded pigskin, the stool seats of pigskin too, and at the far corner of the bar, Mollie Morris. She was in a dinner dress and with the handsome lawyer, Jay Scott. As Mike sat on the vacant stool she glanced at him, and he went to speak; then she pretended she didn’t see him.

  When he got the drink he gripped the glass in both hands, and he stared at Miss Morris puzzled, because he had known she had shared his disgust with Harry Lane. Finally she fumbled in her purse, then she whispered something to her lawyer friend, snapped the catch on her bag grimly, and came over to him.

  “Good evening, Miss Morris,” he said.

  “I’m glad you came in here, Mike,” she said, and he did not like the grim tilt of her jaw or her tone. “There’s something I want to say to you.”

  “Go ahead, Miss Morris.”

  “Your elegant playmate, Mr. Conlin, came to see me. He’s scared he’s going to be deported because he and you had Harry beaten up.”

  “I didn’t have that maniac beaten up,” he said angrily.

  “Oh, of course you did,” she said impatiently.

  “Well, I’m going to show you and everybody else, Miss Morris, I don’t have to get somebody else to do the dirty work. I’m above it, do you hear? Above it.”

  “Well,” she said, angrily, “I hear from Ted Ogilvie that your friend Conlin is going around saying I’m standing behind him against Harry and I’ll use my influence to prevent him being deported . . . To try and mix me up in this . . .” She had to pause to take a deep breath, and watching her he grew flustered; she was trembling; she could have been in love with Harry, or she could be hating the sound of his name. “To drag my name in this thing and have it bandied around in this contemptible disgraceful business . . .” Mike felt himself drawing away in his uneasy glimpse of her wound and her humiliation. “If you were more of a man, you’d have settled this thing. You’re not enough of a man,” she said, goading him bitterly. “I think he goes on and on wondering why you don’t end it.” Her neck and her throat were scarlet. “You don’t know how to behave, but you could do me a favor. Tell Conlin that if he goes around using my name in any way, connecting me in any way with this thing, I’ll do all in my power to see that he really is deported. Just tell him that, will you?”

  “Why don’t you tell him yourself, Miss Morris?”

  “You’ll see him and I won’t.”

  “I don’t care what you and Conlin do, Miss Morris, or what arrangements you care to enter into,” he said with heavy disdain. “If I see him I’ll be courteous enough to give him your message.”

  “You’ll see him, you know,” she said with her elegant and insulting assurance, and as she walked away calmly, his heart started pounding. He turned and walked out, stumbling on the steep flight of stairs; then he was out on the street on his way over to Mountain and the rooming house. It was sticky and hot, there wasn’t a puff of air. A few drops of rain fell. Going up Mountain he watched heavy clouds gathering and rolling together in a monstrous threatening black weight settling on the mountain’s summit; then it started to rain heavily. The rain came lashing at the trees and thunder rattled off the mountain and came banging down at Mike and he rushed to get under a tree. A young mother and her little boy had also taken shelter under the tree, and the thunder rolled down the mountain, down the sloping street at Mike and the mother and her boy. Mike had never been able to get used to thunder low on the mountain; it wasn’t like a thunderstorm in any other city he had been in, and he was glad when it stopped just as suddenly as it began. Now his shoulders and pants were soaking wet but he went on up the street.

  There was a light in the ground-floor front window which was Harry’s room, and he turned in eagerly, and then he saw a young fellow and a girl standing on the step making love and blocking the way. They didn’t even turn. Backing away, Mike went up the street a little way, then hated himself for retiring as if he didn’t want anyone to see him. Turning back, he brushed by the boy and girl. “Excuse me,” he said, and he opened the door, walked in, and closed it.

  “Who’s there?” Mrs. Benoit called from the head of the stairs. “Why don’t you ring? What do you want?”

  “Mr. Lane.”

  “The door right there,” she said, coming down the stairs a few steps, her hand on the banister, her head thrust down under the light to get a look at him. “And ring next time will you? This isn’t the Windsor Station,” and mumbling to herself she went back up the stairs.

  Mike looked at the doorknob, hesitated, then he knocked. “Who is it?” Harry called.

  “Mike Kon,” he said, ready to heave with his shoulder against the door.

  “Oh,” Harry said, and Mike waited, his hand on the doorknob, then Harry called, “The door is always open. Why don’t you come in?” and he went in.

  Harry was on the bed, in his shorts, lying on his belly, his head twisted so he could see the door, and kneeling on the bed beside him so she could massage his legs, was Annie Laurie. Seeing her there with her hands on Harry’s bruised legs hurt Mike for he had always liked her, and he scowled
at her disgust.

  “Take it easy, Mike,” Annie said gently. “He was in bad shape after that beating. What do you want?”

  “Just to put an end to his joke,” Mike said grimly, looking around for the coat.

  “You know, Mike, there’s a way to put an end to my joke,” Harry said, and he seemed to be moved by Mike’s grim, harassed wildness, the ruin in his mind and heart, and all that had been magnanimous in his own nature was touched. “I’ve been wanting you to come and see me, Mike. When I heard you there at the door . . . well, in the whole thing maybe I’ve needed you, Mike,” then he faltered, his head on one side, half puzzled by his mixed-up recognition of his need of Mike. Then, almost pleading, “Now that you’ve come here, Mike, why don’t you say you could have been all wrong about me. You’re not the kind of man who wants to make himself an accuser.”

  “You think I’ve come here to get down on my knees to you now — now?” Mike said, laughing harshly. “There’s an apology to be made here, all right, and I owe it to myself.” He went over the chair where Harry had flung his clothes, but the coat there belonged to another suit. “How you disgust me,” he said. Then he saw the clothes closet to the left and near the room door. His back had been to it.

  “Listen to me, Mike,” Annie Laurie said indignantly, and she came close and grabbed his arm. “All right, so you feel insulted. What about Harry? People like you think he should run or hide his face. Well, he can’t because he doesn’t know how to run or hide. Don’t you think it breaks my heart to see him wearing that stupid coat? If you’re going crazy thinking no one believes your story, don’t you think he has a right to go crazy knowing no one has believed him since last winter?”

  “Whoa there, Annie Laurie,” Harry said gently as he sat up on the bed, his legs folded under him. “You’re only a poor little character witness, you know. Mike doesn’t want to be a human being, making mistakes. He wants to go on in his big role of public prosecutor,” and his smile and tone, regretful, almost affectionate in his compassionate awareness of what they had to be to each other, taunted Mike and made him feel looked down on more than ever. Breathing hard, Mike clenched his fists, moistened his lips, and balancing on the balls of his feet he wanted to jump at Harry and choke off his words, yet he tried to remember it was the coat he wanted to destroy; beating him was no good if he was left with the coat. “Come on, where is it?” Striding toward the clothes closet he jerked the door open. Only one suit was there, a blue one, and then bewildered he looked at the gray one lying on the floor, for he hadn’t been able to imagine Harry wouldn’t have the coat.