The Loved and the Lost Page 3

  “Peggy is going to have a drink with us,” he said. “But she doesn’t want to go to the hotel. Let’s find a place on St. Catherine. How about Dinty Moore’s? Peggy?”

  “Suits me,” she said. On St. Catherine the women now wore galoshes and snow boots; it was snowing harder.

  “Won’t your head get wet?” McAlpine asked her.

  “I never wear a hat,” she said. She barely came up to his shoulder. She had none of Catherine’s style and obviously didn’t care, and probably wore the belted coat in the spring, fall, and winter. Yet he had been able to recognize her by Foley’s description. Her small face had a childlike prettiness, and yet she was not baby-faced; she possessed a strange kind of stillness.

  In Dinty Moore’s they went back to the tables near the bar. McAlpine and Foley took off their coats, but she only opened hers. “I can’t stay long,” she said. “I’ll just have one beer. I like beer. It’s a pleasant drink for a brief encounter.” As she smiled, the melted snow drops shone on her fair hair.

  “You’re a historian, I hear, Mr. McAlpine,” she said, turning to him to make him feel at ease.

  “It was my subject,” he said.

  “History?”

  “Yes.”

  “I suppose it’s Chuck’s subject, too, and mine, too. I suppose we’re all historians, aren’t we?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, we each make up our minds about what we see going on, don’t we?”

  “Oh, it isn’t quite as simple as that, Miss Sanderson.”

  “No?”

  “Oh, no, it’s a philosophical subject, you know.”

  “Tell me what’s going to happen to the world, Mr. McAlpine.”

  “When?”

  “In the next few years.”

  “It’s a large order, isn’t it?”

  “But haven’t you got it worked out scientifically – like all the smart men?”

  “Nobody can foretell what will happen,” he said, “because people are involved.”

  “I like that,” she said gravely.

  “Don’t let her kid you, Jim. She’s a college graduate herself,” Foley said. “And from your own university, too.”

  “Oh, I’m not kidding him, Chuck,” she said.

  “Of course not,” McAlpine agreed. But he felt that somehow he was not being taken seriously. He wanted to explain himself to her, but of course it couldn’t be done – not without some justification. He watched her put down her drink and smile at Foley, and believed he perceived a remarkable quality in her; it was not just the expression in her eyes, or her calm face, or even her relaxed stillness; everything together revealed a charming innocence that was his own remarkable discovery.

  A little green book was sticking out of her pocket. Reaching over he took it, and while Foley talked to her he glanced through it and saw it was a digest of Negro writing. He was familiar with the names of some of the authors.

  “Some of these Negro writers are pretty good,” he said, interrupting Foley.

  “Know any of them, Mr. McAlpine?”

  “Some of their stories and poems. Pretty good, too.”

  “I think so. Don’t you, Chuck?”

  “Sure,” he said, but his manner changed; it was just a slight stiffening. “Don’t we all like them?” he asked, brushing the Negroes aside.

  “No, some don’t,” she said casually, taking the magazine from McAlpine and standing up. “I have to go now. I really must.”

  “One more drink, Peggy,” Foley coaxed her. “It’s about eleven, and you don’t have to go anywhere at this hour.”

  “Oh, but I do, and I don’t want to be late. I said only one drink. Remember?”

  “Can’t you stay, Peggy?” McAlpine asked. Her mouth twitched with amusement: he was so concerned. They both coaxed her and she didn’t resist with any determination, she simply went on buttoning up her coat.

  “See you tomorrow, Chuck,” she said.

  “You’ll be around, won’t you?” McAlpine asked.

  “Sure I will,” she said. “I try to get Chuck to buy me a cup of coffee in here at four-thirty every afternoon. Well, so long.” And, glancing at the clock over the bar, she hurried out.

  “Now where would she be going?” McAlpine asked.

  “Meeting someone, I suppose.”

  “A man of her own?”

  “She has a guy she hangs around with, Henry Jackson. A screwball commercial artist. But I know he’s out of town.”

  “Then who would she be meeting at this hour?”

  “Now how do I know?”

  “I’m only wondering,” McAlpine said as Foley grinned. Yet the fact that she had gone out by herself, making it so plain she didn’t want them with her, annoyed him. He had felt an urge to protect the charming innocence he had discovered, but of course he had to conceal his feelings from Foley.

  “Do you get what I mean, Jim?” Foley asked. “I know she didn’t say a damn thing. What does it matter? Another girl would have made a self-conscious effort to say a dozen things. Peggy doesn’t have to try. I like it, Jim. She makes me feel young.”

  “It’s not I, but you, that should have met her some time ago,” McAlpine said.

  “I wish I had. She came to our office – a copy writer. I remember the impression she made. Maybe you’ve noticed that she hasn’t much style, and yet she’s completely feminine. It doesn’t matter what she wears. I think we’re all glad to have her in the office. When she’s around we smile at each other. You know what we’re really like – a bunch of gimlet-eyed hucksters. I don’t know. It’s nice to feel young again. A woman chaser, Fred Lally, is making a play for her. We offered to bet him real money he wouldn’t lay a hand on her.”

  “If you like her, why cheapen her that way?”

  “To show up Lally.”

  “But it pushes her at him.”

  “Well, if he does any pushing, he’ll get pushed in the nose.”

  “Are you in love with her yourself, Chuck?”

  “Don’t be silly. I’ve had enough of that stuff. I like to feel good. That’s all.”

  The two friends had never felt so close together. Finishing their drinks, they put on their coats and went out. The thickening snow now covered the sidewalk and the road and whitened the hats and coats of pedestrians. In the doorway, McAlpine stared at an unbroken stretch of white on the road. It covered the girl’s footprints, and no one could tell which way she had gone.

  “It’s really going to be a storm,” Foley said.

  “Yes, a real storm,” McAlpine agreed. “Peggy had no rubbers on, did you notice? Just those thin little pumps. If she walks very far in this snow—”

  Smiling a little, Foley asked, “Was I right about her, Jim?”

  “An odd girl – yes, I think I know what you mean, Chuck.”

  “I knew you’d get it,” Foley said. They remained there, sharing a simple happy recollection, not wanting to part, and the snow formed a crown on the brims of their hats.

  “Oh, Lord, I’m late!” McAlpine said suddenly. “This is awful.”

  “You’re just across the street, Jim.”

  “Why don’t you come with me, Chuck?”

  “I’m going down to the Earbenders Club.”

  “The Earbenders?”

  “The Chalet Restaurant – down on Mountain near Dorchester,” Foley said, grinning. “I do my heavy drinking there. Well, so long, Jim.”

  “See you tomorrow,” McAlpine said; and he hurried across the street to the radio studio.

  In the slow-moving elevator he blamed himself for having been distracted, and when he got to the big studio on the third floor and peeked in he saw that he was too late. The musicians were packing up their instruments. Catherine was talking with some of the musicians and three of her Junior League friends. Her coat was draped around her shoulders, and her Cossack-like beaver hat made her look taller than the others. The blonde producer with his built-up heels and bright lumberjack shirt had come out of the booth
to congratulate her on her speech. Standing awkwardly by the door McAlpine thought, I’ll tell her about the strange girl I met and how she fascinated Foley, and she’ll be just as curious as I was. Then Catherine looked at him, and her eyes were hurt.

  THREE

  Sit down, Jim. I’ll only be a minute,” she called in her clear, penetrating voice. But she didn’t hurry; she was deliberately keeping him waiting, and he knew it.. He sat down at a table near the door, picked up some paper lying on the table, took out his pencil, and drew until she broke away.

  “I’m ashamed of myself, Catherine,” he said, jumping up apologetically. “How did it go?”

  “They’re trying to tell me I did it with great talent and authority. What’s that?” she asked, reaching for his drawing. “Who’s it supposed to be? Why, it’s me! It’s good! Can I show it to the others?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I’m going to keep it anyway. Write something on it.”

  Jim smiled and wrote, Madame Radio. “How’s that?”

  “Just what I feel like,” she said, putting the drawing in her purse. Let’s get out of here. That producer is the quaintest little man. Aren’t radio people bewildering? In the woods too long. Sort of treed.”

  “You mean bushed.”

  “All right. I knew I had the wrong word.”

  Going down in the elevator, she said, “Come on, Jim, tell me what made you late.”

  “I was with Foley. The time passed so quickly.”

  Outside, the snow was now two inches deep. “Look, isn’t it wonderful, Jim?” Catherine cried. “This is my time of year. When it’s like this I want to go to the mountains. I want to ski. Can you ski, Jim? It’s no good if you can’t ski. You didn’t say where you were with Foley, Jim.”

  “Just across the street. We had a drink,” he said.

  “Just across the street,” she repeated. “Was he that interesting, Jim?”

  “Chuck is good company when he’s in a good mood.”

  “I know all about Foley. You’ll say I don’t like him because my husband liked him. But really, Jim, why does he have to spend all his time with mugs and fighters and drunks? It’s a pose. I think he’s an awful fraud. I know people he went to school with. I know where he belongs and where he doesn’t. Has he a grudge against his own class because he couldn’t get along with his wife?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll ask him. I know he has a pretty good feeling about people.” His head down against the snow, he glanced at her handsome leather snow boots. “It’s just as well you wore those boots, Catherine,” he said. “A girl with light pumps would get her feet soaking wet just crossing the road, wouldn’t she?”

  “I suppose so. Why?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  “You just don’t want to talk about Foley, do you?”

  “I don’t mind talking about Foley.”

  “Come on then, tell me what you talked about so long.”

  “I don’t think it’ll make you like him any better.” He was irritated by her resentment of his friendship with Foley.

  “I’ve told you, Jim, I think you waste your time hanging around with that Foley,” she said. “He’ll never do you any good in this town.”

  “Won’t he?”

  His tone, so quiet and withholding, startled her, and made her afraid of her own assertiveness. She felt him guarding himself against her. Oh, why did I sound like that when it’s not the way I feel? she thought. They walked close together in the snow, but they knew they were opposing each other. They knew they had come to a place where he could no longer be simply a man whose company she enjoyed. They had to become aware of each other in a new way and know how much of each other they could count on. Soon she may tell me not to see Foley at all, he thought. Am I not to have my own friends? I knew I couldn’t tell her about that girl. And Catherine, whose face was hidden in her turned-up fur collar, was reminded painfully of moments she had known with her husband. She couldn’t bear to turn and look at Jim and feel him guarding himself, and see that expression she had seen in her husband’s eyes.

  “Oh, it’s too beautiful a night to worry about Foley, isn’t it, Jim?” she asked.

  “I could walk for hours on a night like this,” he said.

  “It’s exhilarating,” she said. And then she slipped and lurched against him, he held her up, they both laughed, and the bad moment was gone and they felt free and happy with each other.

  The apartment house had many entrances that were like alcoves in a cloistered stone corridor. In a shadowed alcove he said, “Shall I come in, Catherine?”

  “No, not now, Jim.”

  “Well…”

  “Well…” she said softly.

  The alcove light touched one side of her expectant face, and as she moved her head from the light to the shadow the bold line of her face softened. She undid her coat; the folds fell away, the light touched her breast line, a shadow was at her waist where the belt gathered in the black dress tightly, and she waited, looking up at him. “I thought of our conversation this afternoon,” she said. “It kept going through my head. It’s a funny thing, Jim. Your words would keep getting mixed up with mine. I couldn’t remember what you had said, or what I had said, yet it was all there. A kind of sympathy. It was nice. Yes, new and nice.” Then the words trailed away.

  “I know,” he said. “When I was crossing the street, you were in my mind like this.” He put his arms around her waist and he kissed her, but did not hold her hard against him. It was not a warm full kiss. When he released her she waited awkwardly, thinking: It was that one moment on the street. I felt it. He was resentful. It still bothers him. That’s all it is. He’s not like Steve. He really wants me. But her doubt showed in the way she lifted her head; he saw it, yet was afraid to hold her against him, afraid she would know his heart was not beating against hers, and know, too, that his mind was somewhere else, enchanted by a glimpse of something else. If he had only mentioned the girl it wouldn’t be like this.

  “Everything has been going so well, hasn’t it?” he asked awkwardly.

  “Going well, yes, Jim,” she said, still waiting.

  “Of course a lot will depend on the luncheon with your father tomorrow.”

  “It will go well, Jim.”

  “I’m sure it will.”

  “Well good night, Jim.”

  “Good night, Catherine.”

  “Phone me tomorrow,” she said, and she turned away swiftly.

  FOUR

  The snow whirled in gay little spurts over the low skyline of the grey antique stone office buildings when McAlpine and Mr. Carver left the Canadian Club and came along St. James Street with the magnates who were returning to their offices. They walked arm in arm. They took turns guiding each other across the street. “Watch yourself now, Mr. Carver,” McAlpine would say when a taxi skidded by in the snow. And a few steps later Mr. Carver would say, “Look out now, Jim. You’re walking right into that drift.” In between these admonitions, offered with such friendly warmth, Mr. Carver told why his managing editor, J. C. Horton, opposed having McAlpine do the column.

  “You understand, Jim, I can’t have a managing editor and not appear to give some weight to his opinion,” he said as they ducked their heads in the same motion against the wind.

  “Of course not.” For the moment McAlpine could hardly conceal his anxiety, and Mr. Carver felt it. Then with sudden confidence, believing he could rely on Mr. Carver, he said, “After all, Mr. Horton ought to have some doubts about me. It’s your judgment I’m counting on, Mr. Carver.”

  “Which is as it should be,” Mr. Carver agreed. He liked having McAlpine count on him. He was accustomed to having paternal sympathy for any employee who was in trouble. Many times in the past he had gone out to visit the wife of a reporter who was a drunkard or a gambler to assure her she could count on him. An alcoholic gambler’s home was never broken up. Mr. Carver would make an arrangement with the wife and the humiliated husband that would permit The Sun to adv
ance her money and take over the management of the weekly salary until the debt was paid off. But his feeling for McAlpine was different, and he wanted to be certain he could rely on him.

  “Don’t let what I say about J. C. trouble you too much, Jim,” he said.

  “I’m not going to, Mr. Carver.”

  “I can’t brush him aside. I have to reason with him.”

  “I understand. What has he got against me?”

  “Nothing whatever, Jim. You have to understand J. C. He’s a big blunt fellow. A big-nosed, hard-headed fellow. Well, he’s read your Atlantic Monthly article. It happens that J. C. thinks of himself as a publicist, a moulder of public opinion. Well, he sees you in that light too, Jim.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  “In a sense he’s an old-style, narrow-minded businessman,” Mr. Carver said, smiling indulgently.

  “I think I should have a little talk with Mr. Horton.”

  “That’s exactly what I don’t want you to do, Jim. I want you to keep away from the practical men who can’t see beyond their own noses. If you let Horton get you into his office, well, he’ll have you there every day, and he’ll have his hand in every column you write. Leave it to me,” Mr. Carver added. “I’ll try and push this thing through in my own way.”

  Pink-faced from the wind and snow, they crossed the road to The Sun building. It was a four-storied grey stone building of nineteenth century architecture with a large brass name plate to the left of the entrance. For fifty years The Sun had been published here by the Carvers. The building wasn’t impressive; it didn’t look much like a modern newspaper plant, but The Sun was as influential as any newspaper in the country. In a French city like Montreal it couldn’t have a circulation as large as the French language journals, nor did it have as many readers as the Evening Mail, but it had better readers. Everybody who felt established in Montreal read The Sun. It was the only Montreal newspaper that had national influence and was widely quoted in the financial districts, the universities, and by newspapermen on other papers. It didn’t pay big salaries. It had only one page of comics. The international scene was its special field; it carried the New York Times correspondence. Newspapermen looking for more money in other cities liked to be able to say they had worked for Carver of The Sun, because no one could mention The Sun without thinking of Carver and his liberal editorials.