In the kitchen old Mrs. Lawson sat beside Bill, her hand on his shoulder, but he remained motionless and indifferent. The old lady got up quickly when the doctor came in. The doctor looked at Bill’s eyes, shrugged his shoulders, looked at the eyes again, and said that he was looking well, though apparently he hadn’t changed much. Still, if he had laughed, he had laughed.
Bill’s mother wanted to argue with the doctor, who remained good-humored, talked genially till he got to the front door, then he shook hands with her. The old woman came back to the kitchen, and Flora, standing in the hall, heard the doctor talking to Mrs. Fulton, next door.
Then, Mrs. Fulton came in and shook hands warmly with Flora and asked if she could see Bill for a minute or two; she had just heard that he had laughed out loud. At first she thought she could only stay a minute, but she sat down for a long talk.
Later in the evening Mrs. McGuin, Dolly Knox, and Mrs. Starr came in and they all sat down, very friendly and curious. Dolly Knox got up and touched Bill’s forehead with the palm of her hand, then the other women touched him, but he did not laugh again. Flora put a linen tablecloth on the kitchen table and got out the good spoons and made some tea while the old lady answered many questions. Flora was nice and considerate of her mother-in-law, who brought in a cake from the sideboard. Some of the questions Flora answered importantly.
At ten o’clock Mrs. Starr got up to go home and met Johnny Williams coming in the front door, so she decided to stay a minute longer. Johnny was limping a little and had a bad cold. He kept blowing his nose. In every pocket he had a clean handkerchief. He said that The Standard wouldn’t be out, fortunately, for two days, and he’d have something worthwhile to say about Bill. Flora talked happily and Mr. Williams said that he would have come to see her, anyway. Very seriously Johnny talked to Bill, bending over him, touching his chin, twisting his ear, and everybody watched eagerly, but Bill was not interested. “He’s a wonder,” Johnny said, straightening up.
They talked casually now, and old Mrs. Lawson yawned twice, very tired. Everybody assured her she was very tired, and they all went out together. Still yawning, the old woman said that she might as well show Flora how to undress Bill. “It’s not hard to undress him, and when he’s sleepy, he goes to bed easily,” she said. “People around here seem to think his legs and body is made of stone from his grandfather’s quarry. It’s his mind that’s wrong.”
They undressed him together and put him to bed in the front room. Flora said she would sleep on the sofa, in the same room.
The old woman went upstairs, a lamp in her hand, and Flora, undressing slowly in the front room, wondered if Bill, lying awake on the bed, could see her. His eyes were open: he was looking up at the ceiling. Before putting on her nightgown, she bent over him to kiss his forehead. His eyes followed her, but he didn’t move his head. She turned out the light and lay down on the sofa, shifting her body close to the wall so she would not fall off in the night. Her eyes remained open and she couldn’t go to sleep. It was quiet outside. Listening carefully she heard wind in the leaves on the trees. A screen was in the window, the shade raised a foot. She heard footfalls crunching on the cinder path, a steady long stride and a firm crunch opposite the house, now farther down the street till she could no longer follow it. It was nearly eleven o’clock and the footfalls were Henry Longman’s, who worked in Eggleston’s butcher store, that kept open till a quarter to eleven. Every night his footfalls passed the window at this time and she knew the slow, easy, swinging stride. She lay there listening, wondering if he had passed the house every night at the same hour while she was away. In a half-hour Mr. McGuin would come along the cinder path, walking with his quick, jerky stride, as though determined to get home ahead of time, the soles of his feet scraping on the cinders. She was wide awake, waiting for Mr. McGuin to pass. Later on, if anyone else passed the house, she would not be able to recognize the stride and would wonder who it was. Many pictures and thoughts were in her head, and she even imagined she could hear Bill chuckling again. Many women had come to the house to see her and Bill, and had talked to her respectfully — one of the most interesting women in town. She breathed lightly, closing her eyes peacefully, and heard Bill breathing steadily. She turned over on her side to make out the shape of his head on the pillow. The sofa was not very comfortable. His head, alone on the pillow, suggested an exciting idea that made her feel weak. She ought to get into bed beside Bill, put her arm around him, the warmth of her body arousing him so he would put his arm around her. She resisted the thought, her whole body sweating till she tossed off the cover and, shivering, knew she was too restless to go to sleep. She got up and lit the lamp.
First she went into the kitchen and opened all the cupboard drawers, casually counting plates and cups. Then she thought of going upstairs to the sewing room and reading parts from the books that had interested Bill. Holding the lamp in front of her, she climbed upstairs and turned into the sewing room. The machine was there, but no chair, no pile of books. The room had been cleaned and there wasn’t a piece of paper in the machine drawers. The window was open a few inches and a light breeze made the lamp smoke, darkening the glass at the top. She picked up the lamp and went into her mother-in-law’s room.
The old woman sat up in bed. “Who’s there? Is that you, Flora?”
“I was going to look at Bill’s papers and books. Where are they?”
“Where are they? I cursed them and burned the last one of them. It was them that took away his mind.”
Flora could find no words. The lamp tilted, the flame burned at an angle. The old woman’s lips were twitching, and one hand touched the nightgown buttoned high on her throat.
Flora turned away and went downstairs to the front room. She blew out the light and lay down on the sofa again. Now she had so many things to think of, she assured herself she would remain wide awake until Mr. McGuin passed on the cinder path; and then suddenly she felt tired and fell asleep.
11
She lived contentedly in the May and June months, and many neighbors brought material for dresses for her, and talked sometimes all afternoon while she worked. Pete Hastings was shy the first time he came to the house. She spoke nicely to him, making him understand something had happened that placed her far beyond him, and it would be foolish for him to have thoughts of making love to a woman who was so respected by everybody in the town. At first he had shrugged his shoulders, sneering, but he became impressed. Old Mrs. Lawson liked him, so he came often and had long conversations with Flora about Bill, who walked to his bed in the evening. Three times Pete weeded the garden for her; the beans and lettuce and carrots were ripe.
He sat on the back steps with her one early afternoon, while she basted on a sleeve in a dress she was making for Mrs. Eggleston. He had on a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up, and was mopping his forehead with a big handkerchief. The air was hot and sticky and heavy; there had been no rain the first seven days in July. The early roses were blooming and the wild rose climber, on the picket fence, was a spray of blossoms.
“It’s kind of hot sitting out here in the sun,” he said.
“What do you want to do, Pete?”
“I’d like you to come along for a walk in the shade, but you won’t do that any more.”
“No, I wouldn’t do it; besides, I got to look after Bill now.”
“Well, let’s sit in the kitchen; it’s cool there, anyway.”
Doubtfully, she looked up at him, for she had made up her mind not to be alone in the house with him any more. Bill was sitting in the kitchen, but Pete never seemed to notice him. She was afraid that she would encourage Pete to make love to her and regret it afterward, when other people heard about it.
They sat down in the kitchen. Pete, nodding his head at Bill, said: “How is he?”
“Just the same.”
“He’ll always be just the same.”
“Well, what if he is the same?”
“It’s no good for you, a pretty little woman l
ike you, and the likes of him to keep you company all night.”
“He’s more to me than that. In a way he’s never meant so much to me as he does now.”
“Oh, go on.”
“No, I mean it.”
“But it’s different about you and me. He, himself, would see that he’s no good to you in many ways, so if you feel that way . . .”
“I want to feel that way.”
“Well, you could still feel that way, and I’d be loving you only because he couldn’t. You needn’t think less of him.”
“I know, it sounds all right.”
“Sure; come here, Flora.” He got up, moved close to her, picked her up off the chair, and sat down with her on his knee. For a moment she sat without moving, his hands were warm and heavy, her whole body was tingling, then she straightened her legs suddenly and said: “Put me down, Pete; do you hear? Put me down, put me down, put me down!”
“Lord, Flora, what’s got into you?”
She moved away from him, smoothing her dress, staring intently at Bill, sitting in his chair by the window, his head turned away from her. Leaning forward, she listened earnestly, then her shoulders drooped, and she sighed. “I can’t get used to him,” she muttered. “I have a feeling he knows everything that’s going on in the kitchen.”
“He’s not even looking at us, Flora. Come on.”
“No, it isn’t worthwhile.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah, it’s so.”
She was looking at Pete’s smooth, heavy face when she heard someone at the window say: “I’d like a cream puff, or a chocolate eclair.”
She turned abruptly. Bill’s lips moved again, his eyes retaining the expression of indifference. “I’d like a cream puff.”
“Bill, oh Bill,” she said. “You heard it, Pete? Oh, Bill.” But he didn’t move his lips again. Distracted, she turned around twice, then rushed into the front room, looking for her mother-in-law, who had gone to call on one of the neighbors and wouldn’t be home for at least an hour. She told Pete to go down to the store and get some cream puffs and run all the way back. Pete opened his mouth to protest, but couldn’t help watching Bill. He went out the front door.
She shook Bill’s head. He would not speak again. She stood on the back steps and yelled: “Mrs. Fulton, Mrs. Fulton!” Mrs. Fulton, wiping her hands on her apron, said: “I never heard anything like it in my life. I’ll come right in.” As soon as she came into the kitchen, they heard Pete coming in the front door with a bag of cream puffs. Flora opened the bag, took one, her hand trembling as she put it on a plate, and got a fork from the table drawer. She put the plate in front of Bill, and began to cry quietly when he took the cream puff in his hand and began to eat slowly, enjoying it thoroughly. Flora felt that if anyone said anything he would stop eating, so she kept a finger on her lips, warning Pete and Mrs. Fulton. He finished the cream puff, took a deep breath, and turned his head from them.
Bill’s mother talked anxiously to Flora when they had strawberries and cream together at tea time. Flora put down her spoon suddenly and said: “I’m going for a little walk. I want to be alone a while.” Her forehead had got hot and her heart was beating. Her mother-in-law saw that she was excited and didn’t object when she went out the front door.
Flora walked along the cinder path, walking lightly, her legs moving slowly. At the corner she hesitated, smiled to herself, and crossed over to the Starr’s gate and walked up the driveway to the front door. Mrs. Starr opened the door for her and said it was thoughtful of Mrs. Lawson to call and come right in and have a cup of tea with her. Flora sat down at Mrs. Starr’s table, wondering where the woman’s husband was at tea time. The room was large, with an elegant plate-rail, many colored cups and plates on it, and there was a fine soft rug and polished walnut furniture. Mrs. Starr’s tiny head and beaky nose bobbed up and down, listening to the story about the cream puff. Flora talked slowly, importantly, and took three cups of tea, and Mrs. Starr made many handsome efforts to be very friendly. “I was thinking of your husband, Bill, two nights ago,” she said. “So yesterday I got a little present for him. Something a man like Bill will appreciate later on when he gets a little better. I’ll get it now.”
Taking short steps, she left the room and went upstairs. Flora leaned back in the chair, contented and comfortable. Mrs. Starr came down again with a large holy picture, holding it out with both hands — a picture of a red sacred heart, some white angels, and a blue background and a gold frame.
“He had a religious turn of mind and this is the sort of thing that’ll appeal to him,” Mrs. Starr said.
“The colors are lovely,” Flora said. “And it’s so generous of you. I’ll take it right along with me.”
“I’ll wrap it up,” Mrs. Starr said.
Holding the picture, wrapped neatly in thick brown paper, under her arm, Flora walked down the driveway to the corner. She did not want to go home at once, she felt lively, exhilarated, and decided to go for a walk by herself, south past the old rough-cast house. Every few steps she took a deep breath, but had no interesting thoughts; simply happy because she knew Bill would get better, and she had avoided a complicated affair with Pete. She walked all the way down to the waterworks, a low dark-brick building, and heard the engines and smelled the steam, and took a drink of water that she couldn’t swallow because it seemed to taste of steam. A cool breeze was coming from the bay. She stood up straight, brushing strands of hair off her forehead to get the cool air. At the back of the building, by the water’s edge, she heard voices, and knew some fellows were sitting on the bench under the eaves. They heard her footfalls on the picket walk; her legs were in view and the outline of her body. Someone whistled softly and a fellow said smoothly: “Nice legs.” She turned around rapidly, going back, and the same voice called: “Where’d you get those legs?” She called: “Shut up, you pigs,” and the voice jeered again: “Yeah, nice legs for a piano.” Then she was on the street.
The sky was very dark over the bay and the water slapped on the beach. Her thoughts flowed peacefully again. “I’m a lucky woman; I wouldn’t let Pete touch me now for a million dollars.” Holding the holy picture tightly, she glanced around, as if expecting to see him so she could sneer at him. Suddenly she wanted to run along the street like a tomboy laughing happily. A drop of rain fell on her forehead and she stood under a maple tree. The town was very quiet and the wind blew through the leaves of the tree. The wind blew a piece of newspaper along the road, holding it against a fence post.
The rain came down, and as she approached the fence post the paper got wet and slid to the ground. She was glad of the rain, and the feel of it falling upon her head and shoulders and streaming down her neck, as she walked home, holding the face of the picture tightly against her breasts. Only the paper on the back got wet.
The old lady was darning a sock in the kitchen. Bill sat beside her in his chair, his hands linked on his belly, dozing comfortably, a man relaxing in his own home. Flora had imagined that she would talk angrily about the men down at the waterworks, but, instead, smiled good-naturedly, unwrapping the picture, while her mother-in-law scolded her for getting wet. At first Bill’s mother didn’t appreciate the picture, but she got used to the colors, holding it at various angles, and was pleased and excited when she heard that Mrs. Starr would have tea with them tomorrow. She insisted Flora tell her everything Mrs. Starr had said.
Her clothes were wet, and Flora undressed in the front room. Now she thought of the fellows who had yelled at her as she hurried away from them, and wondered if she were getting old and fat. She was not old, though probably much fatter, and made up her mind to start dieting tomorrow. She sat on the side of the bed, sticking out her bare legs, smooth, round, plump, well-shaped legs, and was indignant that anyone would cry out: “Piano legs.”
Outside the rain had stopped, so she dressed quickly. The sun was shining brightly through the back window into the kitchen. Mrs. Fulton and her mother-in-law were talking over th
e back fence, very friendly, because Mrs. Fulton was going away to the city. Her husband had been out of work all summer; not a single boat had been in the dry dock. The grass had grown long in Fulton’s backyard and the house needed painting. A wheelbarrow, fallen over, and a ladder had lain on the grass all summer. Someone had moved the ladder, and two wide yellow lines were on the thick green grass. Passing the time, she looked in the kitchen cupboards and discovered they needed sugar. Mrs. Fulton would come in, she thought, before going away, and would make an earnest effort to have a talk to Bill: a nice woman, Mrs. Fulton, though a bit envious of Flora’s importance in the neighborhood. Flora patted her hair, looking at herself in the mirror, and then took her purse, hanging on the kitchen doorknob. She went out the front door, going down the road to get some sugar.
The creek had almost dried up under the wooden bridge. The sun, red in the late afternoon, had passed over the town to the hills. The red sun was setting behind the blue hills, and it shone on the fields and the farms on the hills till they gleamed like lakes in a wooded country. Behind, over the bay, white clouds were banked high on strips of blue. Over the tracks she met Marjorie Stevens, the priest’s housekeeper, dressed neatly in black and carrying a blue silk parasol. Marjorie stood talking to her under a maple tree, the branches spreading over the sidewalk. Marjorie Stevens, one of the most interesting women in town, was friendly, and it occurred to Flora that they might have much to say to each other. Someday Marjorie would ask about Bill, and she would ask about Marjorie’s husband, who hadn’t been seen since he went to the city.
“It’s only a question of time before Bill gets better, I think,” Marjorie said.
“Maybe in a year, I hope, and you may be sure he’ll not bother again with studyin’ and too many books.”
“He’s very distinguished with his black beard. Will he keep it?”
The Complete Stories of Morley Callaghan - Volume Two Page 26
