The Complete Stories of Morley Callaghan - Volume Two

by Morley Callaghan

  “Get out, black boy,” the red-headed bricklayer roared.

  “Who says so?” the black boy pleaded, coming closer.

  “Move it, coon,” the other bricklayer said, giving the black a push.

  “This place ain’t yours. You just came here, too,” the black whined. Then the big redhead swung the back of his hand and let him have it on the mouth. “Butt out,” he jeered, “and stay out.”

  “Gentlemen, maybe you’re making a mistake?” Henry said, politely. “Would you mind leaving this to me?” He spoke with all the dignity of an offended host. The bricklayers were a little sullen and sheepish. Henry called the young black to the counter and gave the three of them a bowl of soup, and they all talked together.

  When old Herrmann came in the next day, he noticed at once that Henry was moving around as if he had pride in himself. “Business is getting worse,” Herrmann complained, eyeing Henry thoughtfully. “Sometimes I think I ought to close the joint up.” He could see by the way Henry was mopping up the counter that he had begun to get a little self-respect and he couldn’t understand how it had happened. He watched him suspiciously all morning. When his wife came around at noontime he asked Henry to come with him down to the warehouse to get some supplies, and on the way he drove him past the mission, where there was a soup kitchen and a long line of men.

  “It breaks my heart every time I pass these places,” Herrmann said. “Can you imagine what you’d feel like in that line?”

  “I know how they feel,” Henry said, uneasily.

  “That’s right. You probably know better than I do,” Herrmann said, apologetically. “It just goes to show a man can’t feel too sure of himself these days.”

  He spoke so grimly that Henry was sure someone must have tipped him off about him handing out the soup. He began to feel sick. If Herrmann ever caught him again he knew he would throw him out, and Henry began to pray that nothing more would be said and they would get back to the diner all right, and that there never would be any trouble between them.

  But Herrmann’s wife didn’t call for him after midnight and Herrmann went back and forth from the kitchen, watching everyone Henry spoke to and listening for the noise of the cash register opening. Henry went on praying that no one would come in. But at a little after two in the morning, a kid about eighteen showed up. His face was coal black, and he was so cold he could hardly drag himself to the counter, yet he looked as if he had never wheedled from anybody in his life.

  As soon as the kid sat down and put his swollen and beefy red hands on the counter, old Herrmann came in from the kitchen and stood at the edge of the counter. While the kid was taking a minute to catch his breath, Henry felt his heart jump. Then the kid said, “How about it, pal, a bowl of soup, eh?”

  “Nothing doing,” Henry said, wiping the counter with a wet rag and not looking up.

  “No? No, eh? Well, I knew it. I knew it was a lot of crap,” the kid said bitterly. “Only a guy from St. Paul, Jimmy Dyes, said if I was passing through here . . .”

  “Jimmy Dyes, sure,” Henry whispered. Looking into the kid’s eyes, he remembered the man in the long overcoat and the goodwill and warmth and friendliness he had felt in him. Then he was so stirred he could hardly speak. It seemed to him that in many other places in America that night men meeting on the road or sitting around a fire were saying, “If you get that far, there’s a place near the station. There’s a guy in there . . .” He turned miserably to Herrmann.

  When Herrmann saw the misery in his face he sighed and relaxed. His fat face lit up in a contented smile. “That’s the boy, Henry,” he said.

  “Wait a minute,” Henry whispered to the kid.

  In Herrmann’s smug, self-satisfied expression Henry suddenly realized how it pleased the old man seeing him feeling wretched and scared. Henry got a bowl of soup, and his hand trembled when he put it in front of the kid. “Here you are,” he said, as Herrmann leaned a little closer, waiting to see if the kid would pay.

  “Which way are you going, buddy?” Henry asked the kid, who was lapping up the hot soup.

  “I know a bunch of guys in St. Louis,” the kid said, pushing the bowl away from him and grinning.

  “Like a little company?”

  “Okay. Who’s that?”

  “Me,” Henry said. “You wait outside for two minutes.”

  “Sure,” the kid said enthusiastically.

  Taking off his apron, Henry tossed it at old Herrmann, who looked baffled.

  “I want to thank you, Mr. Herrmann,” Henry said with dignity.

  “Listen, Henry,” the old man cried.

  “You’ve helped me make a lot of friends and I feel I’ve sort of got to know the country. I like it,” Henry said as he went into the little room to make a bundle of his few things.

  A Cocky Young Man

  The grapevines, miles and miles of grapevines all through that section of the country, had delighted him. Trees, orchards in patterns along radial lines. He had expected peach trees but so many grapevines made him enthusiastic. An extraordinary section of the country, he said.

  He hadn’t talked so much since coming to the city and getting a job on the Morning Empire. He was on the lake-boat coming back from Niagara. Patterson, a reporter on the same paper, and his girl, sitting on a deck bench, had seen him leaning over the rail enjoying the sunset on the water. He had moved over near Patterson, taking off his large black fedora, and said, “Hello, there.” He didn’t sit down at once.

  “Oh, hello, Hendricks,” Patterson said, frowning slightly.

  Patterson really didn’t know him and wasn’t friendly. Patterson had come into the city room one noontime last week when Hendricks, stepping out of the phone booth, saw him, and asked if he’d mind taking a story about a fire, he was awfully busy. Patterson took the story because he hadn’t made up his mind about Hendricks’ shiny fair hair combed back, his rosy pink cheeks, and little mustache. He had been sure Hendricks was of some importance. Afterward he discovered Hendricks had started working that morning and was indignant to think he had taken the story.

  Hendricks smiled at Patterson’s girl and sat down on the bench beside her. Patterson shrugged his shoulders, staring moodily down at the water, making it clear to Hendricks he didn’t enjoy his company. Hendricks grinned, understanding perfectly he wasn’t wanted. He sat on the bench talking about the grape country, amusing Patterson’s girl. He told her about wines and cooking and finally annoyed Patterson by saying, “What do you do about salads, old man?”

  “Kind of clever, isn’t he?” Patterson said to his girl.

  “Oh, but he has such nice hair,” she said laughing.

  “No, I’m perfectly serious,” he insisted. “There are no decent salads in the country.”

  Patterson, who wasn’t impressed, tried hard to insult him, so he would move away. It was getting dark on the water and he wanted to move over close to his girl. He did put his arm around her shoulder. Hendricks also put his arm around her shoulder. Polite, but very determined, Patterson removed Hendricks’ arm. The girl was amused. A cool breeze came from the water. Hendricks got up quickly and took off his light coat, throwing it around the girl’s shoulders. Patterson thanked him gruffly and Hendricks sat on the bench an hour longer.

  When the boat docked, he took the girl’s hand and said, “I must cook you a meal some day.”

  “Of course,” she said laughing, “Whereabouts?”

  “At the King Edward,” he said. “The chef is my friend.”

  “Go right ahead, enjoy yourself,” Patterson said sarcastically.

  In the editorial room next day Hendricks was friendly to Patterson and showed him some paperback French novels he had just bought, but Patterson still regarded him suspiciously. He was no more successful with other men on the staff. They called him “The Duke” and were polite, only because it was uncertain what he might say if snubbed openly. Mr. H.C. Bronson, the assistant city editor, hesitated to bother him with obituaries in the early morni
ng and said, “How do you do,” nicely, when Hendricks came in and hung up his large black hat and thick knobby cane. In a week’s time Mr. Bronson got used to Hendricks and gave him small assignments along with good ones.

  The men saw there was something about Hendricks that worried Bronson and liked him for it. When Bronson, who had short fat legs, hurried down the office and put his hand on Hendricks’ shoulder and said confidentially, “Slide along on the streetcar and get a picture of Mrs. Gorman, who died at the age of eighty-four, before you go on your assignment,” Hendricks said, “I’m sorry, but I’m frightfully busy.” He didn’t argue. He didn’t even smile. He snubbed Bronson. The expression on his pink-and-white face completely discouraged Bronson, who quickly took his hand off the shoulder. Hendricks didn’t go and get pictures, and Bronson didn’t tell on him either, or put his hand on his shoulder again. No one understood why Bronson didn’t tell on Hendricks. He had told so many stories to Bassler, the editor, about most men on the staff, and it was funny the way he was afraid of Hendricks.

  The staff got accustomed to him gradually. In the morning he sat at the long desk, waiting for the assignment book to come out, on fairly friendly terms with Charlie Lang, who wrote special stories mainly, and whom he had invited up to his room for target practice. Charlie Lang told everybody Hendricks actually had two pistols in his room, and the landlady, with whom he seemed to have a complete understanding, allowed him to practice in her cellar. Lang spent an evening in the cellar shooting poorly at a thick block of wood. Hendricks thanked him profusely, and Lang was embarrassed, for he had been decidedly interested; not that he was becoming enthusiastic about Hendricks — he simply looked thoughtful, or had nothing to say when one of the boys said, “Ho, ho, here comes The Duke.”

  In early August Hendricks was rarely seen around the office. He didn’t talk much or ask fellows where they were eating. No one knew how he was amusing himself and no one asked him, but when he was to share an assignment the other man always seemed surprised to see him actually turn up. Hendricks told Patterson the job was getting uninteresting. That afternoon he went into Mr. Bassler’s office and had a long talk. Bassler came out of the office, his arm around Hendricks’ back. No one in the office at the time was much surprised to see Bassler’s arm around Hendricks, for Hendricks from the first had created the impression that it ought to be so. It would have been different if Bronson had had his arm around him. Hendricks wouldn’t stand for that. Bassler was nodding his small round head, his hand tapping Hendricks’ shoulder. Hendricks had got himself a special assignment.

  Those were the days of prohibition and a sensational article appeared in the Morning Empire at the end of the week, a three-column investigation by an Empire reporter who found that most druggists downtown were selling whiskey over the counter. Everybody knew who had written it, though the article was competent. They called Hendricks a sneaking little rotter for writing the story. Mr. Bassler, standing at the office door, said loudly, “You’re the first man I’ve been able to get in three years, Hendricks, to dig into that story. My best men have come back empty-handed.”

  Bronson, who carefully interpreted Bassler’s moods, treated Hendricks respectfully, never bothering him in the morning. Hendricks often went into Bassler’s office and twice was seen leaving the office of R.S. Smythe, the managing editor.

  Long stories were in the paper, further investigations by the same reporter, going from hotel to speak-easy, getting samples of beer mysteriously and sending them to the government analyst. Most hotel men were deliberately breaking the law. Pictures of either the government analyst, a bottle of beer or the long rubber tube the reporter had used to draw the beer from bottles, were in the papers every day.

  All of it made Hendricks happy. He was also very unpopular, but came into the office when he felt like it, and rarely noticed Bronson. Often he sat near the front window looking down at the traffic moving on the street, tapping his teeth with a long yellow copy pencil. He was the only man on the staff who wasted spare time in the office, and felt secure. He made another effort to be friendly with Patterson, trying to loan him books and starting a literary conversation, but Patterson absolutely refused to take him seriously, telling him almost to his face that he was a faker. Hendricks, who appreciated that he was being insulted, only irritated Patterson further by making him think he ought to know better than to be insulting.

  But he couldn’t go for weeks discovering hotels that were selling over-strength beer. It had to end somewhere, so the editorial writers called official attention to the astonishing conditions in the city and Hendricks was taken off the assignment. He got a five-dollar raise.

  He created an impression in the office that since there was no special work, it was necessary he be left alone and not annoyed with scalping, telephone work, and night assignments. He looked bored when in the office and now carefully avoided coming back after finishing an assignment.

  He said to Patterson one noontime, “Come on out and have a bite to eat with me.”

  “I don’t want to eat with you,” Patterson said rudely.

  “Then come on up to my room and have some gin.”

  “Not today, thanks.”

  “Oh well, come on along, what’s the difference?”

  Patterson continued to refuse awkwardly but Hendricks wouldn’t be snubbed and was so polite Patterson shrugged his shoulders and agreed to go with him. In the elevator Patterson noticed that the operator spoke respectfully to Hendricks, saying the missus had asked him to give her regards. They walked along the street, and Patterson wondered why Hendricks had been friendly with the elevator man.

  “Do you know the elevator man?” Patterson asked.

  “He asked me out to see them last Sunday.”

  “You’re the first guy that’s happened to.”

  “So he said. They’re nice people, and I’ll go again but I wish they weren’t so respectful.”

  His room was tidy. On the walls were some photographs of paintings by Indian artists in California. Patterson looked at the paintings and Hendricks obligingly explained that some of those Indians were fine poets, and one of their best painters was going blind. He talked about Indian rugs while he opened the drawer and took out a bottle of gin. Patterson was sitting on the edge of the bed. Hendricks gave him a glass, and half filled it, then said, “Talking about liquor, how did you like my booze stories? Weren’t they fine?”

  “Sure, I’ll tell you what I thought of them.”

  “Why waste time? Have a drink first. They were wonderful. They were just what Bassler wanted.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “You’d keep a thing to yourself, wouldn’t you? Here, fill up the glass.”

  “Sure I can — whoa, that’ll do.”

  “They were some stories.”

  “They were worse than that.”

  “They were the easiest stories a man ever wrote.”

  “Say, boy, what are you driving at?”

  “Well, I faked most of them right here in this room, see?”

  “I’ll be damned. I might have know it, you’re such a queer egg.”

  “Not at all, old man. When I first suggested it to Bassler he told me what he had been trying to get for years. He told me everything he had ever thought about it, so I simply confirmed his opinions.”

  The story affected Patterson the way the target practice had affected Lang, and he laughed, thinking of Bassler. Most fellows talked and whispered about Bassler and Bronson, but Hendricks, without ever discussing them, understood them perfectly.

  The last two weeks in August were unpleasant for Hendricks. He did routine work, law courts, churches and schools, city hall, and was unpopular on the beats because he was a snob and had no respect for officials who gave out news. Three times he was scooped and received notes from Mr. Bassler. The notes were gentle and persuasive at first, then they became nasty and suggestive. Hendricks, reading a note standing near the city desk, wasn’t much concerned and tearing
it up, threw it in the basket. The way he tossed the pieces in the basket offended Mr. Bronson.

  Hendricks became more popular when it was apparent that Bassler lost interest in him, though no one was really cordial to him. Bronson, who saw that Hendricks had become unimportant to Bassler, treated him curtly, finding fault with his work, and keeping him busy early in the morning. Lang said to Patterson that Hendricks had become simply a cocky young man, and there was no room for cocky young men on the Empire. Hendricks looked bored. The weather was hot, he wore the big black fedora, and his hair was combed perfectly, but he was bored.

  On weekends he went out of town or took boat trips across the lake. He heard that Charlie Lang was going to Montreal for a weekend, so he took the address, promising to see him there, and actually turned up, and got Charlie very drunk. Then he took him to a hotel and ordered an elaborate dinner, very gratified because he was to have an audience. Three waiters brought mixing bowls to the table, and Hendricks was happy, and finally persuaded the chef to allow him to go into the kitchen. Telling about it, Charlie Lang regretted he had been a little drunk, he would have appreciated it so much more.

  Late in August the Rotarians held their international convention in the city. Thousands of Rotarians from all over the world on the streets, in the hotels, the shows, and in the evenings, out at the convention hall in Exhibition Park. The papers gave a full page to the convention every day, though it hadn’t much news value. In the afternoons Lang and Patterson were out at the convention, and all night they worked on human-interest stories.

  Hendricks called at the Exhibition press room one hot afternoon and said to Patterson, “Bassler sent me out here.”

  “What on earth for?” Patterson said, not in good humor. He had been working all night and Hendricks’ hat irritated him. Hendricks didn’t create a good impression in the press room.

  “Oh, there’s a fat lady coming out here. Lena the cham-pion fat lady, or something like that. Bassler wants me to interview her,” he said.