She sat down on a chair in front of the kitchen stove. A fire was in the stove, though it was early spring, and red coals were in the open grate — a bright charcoal fire to warm the house and keep the kettle boiling. She avoided looking at him and stared at the red coals in the grate, determined to get used to the feeling that he was in the room, watching her. Her head kept turning toward him, but her eyes were averted. Realizing that it was like a game gave her more assurance.
She even pretended that he wasn’t in the room and got up to look at herself in the mirror beside the window. Her cheeks were flushed, her brooch too high on her throat. Deliberately she unfastened the brooch to show more of her throat and breasts than she had ever shown walking in the street, or even when dressed in the house. The two-year-old spring coat she had on was faded and a little tight, so she took it off, tossing it over a chair. Paying no attention to Bill, she bent over the chair, taking her purse from the coat pocket, then her powder puff and lipstick from the purse. Her hand was trembling and she applied the lipstick unevenly, her face close to the mirror, her little finger wiping the lower lip, straightening the line. In the mirror she could see him, just the side of his head, and imagined he was watching her, and hoped he would not see that she was excited.
She was satisfied with her image and smiled, and turned, walking toward him. “Poor Bill,” she said. More at home now, she repeated: “Poor Bill, isn’t this the limit!” She leaned over him, knowing that her shoulder and breast were very white and hoping that his eyes would drop to the hollow under the brooch. She didn’t expect him to speak to her, but it was essential he should notice that she was bending over him. Any recognition of her, as a woman, would have satisfied her. His chin remained at the same angle, his head never moved. Straightening up abruptly, she sneered, slapping him on the knee. Terrified at having struck him, she took two steps backward, her hand over her mouth.
“Poor Bill,” she said sympathetically. Moving back to the table, she began to talk eagerly. “I went away, Bill, because I couldn’t stand it; not because I had anything really against you. And you weren’t interested in me, and I was left alone. That was the way it was with me, Bill.”
She bent her head back, observing him closely. He was looking at her, the same indifferent expression in his eyes. She had talked to him and he had moved his head. Encouraged, she talked more excitedly, her hand at first just touching his beard, then stroking through it as she talked.
“It’s terrible to have to go in and out all day by yourself, Bill. We were living together and I had only my own thoughts. A woman that’s my age and only married ’bout two years shouldn’t never be left like that. She gets thinking and things get all mixed up and it never does her any good. But wasn’t I silly to be afraid of you?”
Some movement of objection ought to have come from him, and she watched his eyes. She found it so easy to say she had been afraid of him that she believed it. Then she saw that he was really looking beyond her at the window. Discouraged, she went on talking, sure, now, that nothing she could say would ever interest him, though convinced that he could hear her. Slowly and awkwardly she talked and the sound of her own voice saddened her. She turned away.
She sat on the chair by the stove. Someone was moving in the parlor, the sofa creaking. Slippers dragged and flopped along the floor; Bill’s mother came into the kitchen, the hem at the back of her dress dragging on the floor.
“Oh, it’s you, is it?” she said, pulling up her dress.
“Yes, it’s me.”
“I thought I heard someone out here, but I was half asleep, though I thought I’d better come out.” She was tidying up her hair. She had on a black dress with large gray dots.
“I wanted to see Bill,” Flora said apologetically.
“When was that?”
“Today. I wanted to get a look at him.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any harm in it.”
“There’s no harm in it, and I shouldn’t have to explain that I wanted to see Bill.”
“Nor should you.”
Flora glanced at the clock; twenty minutes to four. “I got to go now,” she said. “I got to meet pa in front of the town hall at four o’clock.”
“Well, goodbye, Flora.”
“Of course I’ll come back tomorrow. Maybe I ought to nurse Bill.”
“Bill’s got along all right so far.”
“Now you’re not sayin’ it wouldn’t be best for his own wife to nurse him?”
“It’s not nursin’ he wants. He’s just that way. He may get better, he may not. Someone has to look after him, though. If you fancied it, why didn’t you do it long ago?”
“Now don’t you go on talking like that; you know well I was scared of him.”
“Maybe you were and maybe you weren’t, but there’s not many who’d be scared of the likes of Bill now.”
“I got to go now, but I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“It won’t do Bill any good; you best keep away.”
“It won’t harm him, and I guess I can come into my own house, anyway.”
“Maybe you can; you didn’t knock today, anyway.”
“I can’t fight about it now, I got to go.”
10
On the way home she told her father she had decided to live with Bill because it was her duty to be with him and nurse him. Crops had not been good last fall, so her father did not object to her going away. At home, after tea, she walked by herself, eagerly looking forward to leaving the farm and the stables and the family odor of the house. Her shoes got muddy. She sat down, scraping the soles with a twig, talking to herself and having much the better of an imaginary argument with old Mrs. Lawson; she gave Bill’s mother a bad setting-out, supplying her remarks and her own caustic answers. Darkness came early. The sky was clouded and no birds were singing. She got up and walked home rapidly. Uninteresting details of her life in the town in the old days now seemed important and she looked forward to having long conversations with Dolly Knox and Mrs. Fulton. Neighbors, stopping her on the street, would ask about Bill. After teaching her how to feed Bill, the old lady would go back and live in her cottage.
At breakfast the next morning she talked quietly to her father and mother, assuming a new dignity and a detached importance as she explained she could earn a good living dressmaking. Last night she had washed a pair of silk stockings and a pink silk blouse that she had never worn on the farm. Her hips were a little wider, her face fuller, than a year ago. She wore a new girdle and garters to hold her stockings up tightly and keep her legs neat and smooth. Humming, she put on her hat, as though expecting to be very happy on a long journey.
Her father drove her into town and to the house. Before getting out of the car she coaxed him to go as far as the door with her, fearing, at the last moment, that the old lady would be nasty when she opened the door. He shook his head and would not get out of the car. She opened the gate. The lawn looked fresher this morning, there was more sunlight. The cinder path was firm underfoot. Two women she could not recognize without staring were on the other side of the street. Mrs. Fulton’s front door opened two or three inches. Flora, carrying her suitcase, climbed the veranda steps, determined that nothing the old lady might say would induce her to go away until after dark.
Bill’s mother, opening the door, said: “I’d an idea you’d come, but I didn’t think you’d be along so early.” She added, as Flora lowered the suitcase to the floor: “Doin’ a lot of shoppin’ in town?”
“No, my clothes are in that bag.”
“Movin’? Goin’ away some place?”
“You know very well I’m not. I’m comin’ to stay here.”
Disregarding her entirely, Flora went through to the kitchen, taking off her gloves and coat. Bill was in the armchair beside the window. A basin of water, a cake of soap, and a towel were on the table, and his hair was damp. His forehead was clean and shiny and his hair uncombed. Shyly Flora half turned, looking toward his mother, then took a comb from her
purse and began to part his hair, her hand trembling at first because he was so helpless she wanted to cry. She parted his hair carefully, neatly, liking the white line of the part. “Don’t you know me, Bill?” she asked.
“Don’t do that,” his mother said behind her.
“Don’t do what?”
“Comb his hair like that.”
“Why shouldn’t I do it?” Flora said angrily.
“Don’t do it, do you hear me? No one else has done it but me since he got sick. You’re a wicked, silly woman and ought to go away at once and leave my son alone.”
“I’m not wicked.”
“Well, you’re silly, anyway.”
“And I’m not silly. I guess I can comb my own husband’s hair, can’t I?”
“He might have died for all you cared.”
“Please, Mrs. Lawson, please don’t talk to me like that. I just want to be with Bill.”
“You don’t, you don’t, you know you don’t, you just want to have him here.”
“Get out of here, you evil old woman. Or shut up, do you hear? Shut up.”
Bill’s mother, moaning softly, went into the parlor. Flora heard the moaning and the springs sagging in the sofa. “Stop it, do you hear, or you’ll drive me frantic,” she yelled. The old woman kept on moaning. Flora went on combing Bill’s hair, her whole body trembling, and certain he had not noticed that she had been quarreling with his mother. “There you are now, Bill. You look as nice as you ever did,” she said. She put the comb back in her purse, glanced aimlessly around the kitchen, then opened the back door to go out and sit down in the fresh air, for her legs were weak. Her lips were dry. She got a cup of water from the pump.
The grass on the back lawn was dry and long, green in spots. A clothes basket, upside down, lay on the grass. Alongside the base of the fence stalks of last year’s flowers were pressed against the earth. Next month would be lilac time, and already the bush was tipped with yellow-green buds. This year she would have a big vegetable garden as well as flowers, since Bill would not be working. A great many people would come to the house to see Bill, or bring material for dressmaking, and she would show them the garden and the flowers — tall pink-and-white hollyhocks at the back of the yard, splendid in the evening at sunset. Bill had never cared much for flowers, mainly because of his steady serious thoughts. She heard Mrs. Fulton opening her back door and got up quickly to go into the house, not ready to talk to her yet.
The old lady, who was feeding Bill, did not glance at Flora when she came in. In one hand she had a big spoon and in the other hand a bowl of some kind of soup. Bill’s head was tilted far back, the neck resting on the back of the chair. His mother, putting the spoon firmly against his teeth, barely parted his jaws and poured the soup down his throat. Flora, leaning forward, her lower lip hanging, held her breath, her eyes following the spoon to the bowl and then to his mouth.
“Let me do it?” she whispered.
“Please move away, or sit down some place.”
Flora sat down at the other end of the table. The old woman fed Bill. Suddenly she said: “I used to have to feed him with a tube through his nose. How would you have liked that?”
“It’s awful, and maybe I couldn’t have done it.”
“They didn’t think anybody would do it.”
“Everybody says it was wonderful the things you’ve done.”
“Hmmmmm.”
Then old Mrs. Lawson put dishes on the table and set a place for Flora. They had lunch together. They weren’t friendly, but Flora, very hungry, ate rapidly. Afterward she put all the dishes in a basin and washed and dried them herself. She cleaned the table while Bill’s mother was out in the yard.
It rained early in the afternoon: the falling rain saddened her and she went upstairs and lay down on the bed and started to cry. She powdered her face and came downstairs and said she would appreciate it if they could be friendly because she only wanted to stay in the house with Bill. His mother, shrugging her shoulders, said: “Where were you counting upon sleeping? With your husband?” Flora dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief, and Bill’s mother said: “Oh, well, I suppose it’s your house.”
“Can’t we both say in the house? What’s the matter with that?”
“That’s what we’ll have to do, I suppose,” she said gruffly. Flora knew that she was pleased.
Feeling much better, Flora went out and sat on the front veranda, prepared to talk with anyone who might pass along the street. Though the rain had stopped, the sky was slate-colored, and no one came along the cinder path. Soon many people would know that she had come back and she thought of talking with Dolly and Curly Knox, wondering if Dolly would be friendly. She felt restless and got up, walking slowly down the front path to the iron gate, resting her elbows on the cold metal. Then she opened the gate and walked along the cinder path toward Dolly’s place. Dolly must have seen her coming for she came out on the veranda and waved excitedly, then ran down the steps and along the path to fling her arms around Flora’s neck and kiss her.
“I’m just taking a little walk; I got to get right back,” Flora said.
“We were over to see Bill last night, Curly and me; ain’t he wonderful?”
Dolly asked many questions very rapidly and was impressed when Flora told her she had come home to nurse Bill. Dolly said very simply and honestly that Bill was in many ways the most interesting man that had ever lived in the town. That was what Curly said, and later on everybody in the whole country would agree with him. Flora said modestly that both Dolly and Curly would always be welcome in her house, and then she told her about the plan to do dressmaking for a living, and Dolly was enthusiastic. So they walked back to Flora’s together, arm in arm, and Dolly, giggling eagerly, told her that now nearly everybody knew that Mr. Starr was carrying on with the Gibson woman that lived in the cottage down near the waterworks by the bay. Dolly looked a bit sloppy, but her face was fresh and her hair had just been washed. They stood at the gate, Flora glancing around slyly to see if anyone passing on the street noticed her, and Dolly told how Curly had followed Mr. Starr one night to Mrs. Gibson’s place and had waited around for three hours before Mr. Starr came out, and all the time there didn’t seem to be a light in the house. Mr. Starr had lots of money and the Gibsons were very poor, but it was a shame that Mr. Gibson pretended to know nothing about it. No one had much sympathy for Mrs. Starr, because she was a very difficult woman. Flora said that sooner or later someone would complain to the constable, and added that she had to go in at once and feed Bill. She promised Dolly to visit her the following night and have a game of five-hundred.
Just before suppertime she did learn how to feed Bill and give him water to drink. Afterward she felt happy. The sun came out to shine brilliantly just before setting. Some kids from down the road came to the back door, asking could they see Bill. She sat down on a chair, hooking her heels on a rung, watching a kid with a dirty face and a pair of suspenders over a sleeveless sweater walk over to Bill and touch his leg. The three kids touched him, made faces at him, and laughed. Flora was indignant and got up to tell the kids to go home, but the old lady, who was putting some charcoal on the fire, then poking at the grate, said that Bill didn’t mind it and the children liked it. Flora took the kettle off the stove to pour hot water over the supper dishes in the sink. Out of the corner of her eye she watched one of the kids climbing onto Bill’s knee till he could reach his face and rub his small hand through Bill’s beard, tickling his chin. Suddenly Flora heard a laugh, a slow chuckle from Bill. The kettle dropped from her hand into the sink. The old lady sat up straight, lurched forward, recovered her balance, then hobbled across the floor. Two of the kids began to cry and they all ran out the back door.
“He laughed,” Flora said.
“Oh, my God, glory be to God, he laughed.”
Flora stroked Bill’s beard eagerly, muttering in his ear, and even shook his head, but he was not interested. His mother was kneeling on the floor, praying sincerely, h
er lips moving rapidly. She noticed Flora and said: “Go tell Doctor Arnold,” then went on praying. Flora hurried out the front door. On the other side of the street she saw Mrs. English, from the west side of the town, whom she hardly knew, walking slowly. “Bill laughed out loud,” Flora called to her. Mrs. English spun around sharply, then watched Flora hurrying along the path, her hand over her mouth. Pools of water were on the cinder path where cinders had worn away. Flora zigzagged along the path, avoiding the puddles. At the corner she was glad to see Mrs. Starr on her veranda. A wide stretch of lawn was between Flora and Mrs. Starr, but Flora, cupping her hands, yelled: “Oh, Mrs. Starr!”
Mrs. Starr bowed, but Flora couldn’t hear what she said. Flora yelled again: “Bill laughed out loud. He really did.” This time she heard Mrs. Starr yell, as she stood up: “You don’t say.” Mrs. Starr came down the steps, but Flora was too far along the street.
Doctor Arnold, a stout man with a boyish face and a bald head, was playing catch with his two boys on the sidewalk in front of his house. Flora grabbed him by the arm and told him that Bill had laughed out loud. He examined the stitches on the baseball in his hand, tossed the ball in the air, caught it, then dropped it on the sidewalk and said: “Isn’t that odd? It’s odd, very odd, isn’t it? I’ll come right along with you now, Mrs. Lawson.”
Walking with Flora he explained that if Bill had laughed, he might just as well talk some day. It might be a long time before he spoke to anyone, but it was possible. Anything was possible. He had never been able to understand Bill’s condition, though he supposed he was simply out of his mind. People in town suffering from nervous diseases had gone down to the asylum at Whitby and in a few years, or in a month or two, had become normal again. So there was always something to look forward to.
The Complete Stories of Morley Callaghan - Volume Two Page 25
