Each Man's Son (12 page)

Archie's anger disappeared as suddenly as it had come. “That iss different,” he said gravely.

“It would be a great day. In Sydney it is hard telling who would make the purse big enough to get a Yankee worth knocking out, but it would be a great day just the same. They
think it an awful shame for you to waste your fighting on those that can't appreciate it down here.”

Archie raised his glass and poured down the drink in a single gulp. Then he felt the haze spread through him and knew he had taken too much, for he was feeling the beginnings of the sadness even though it was still daylight. It was not unhappiness such as city people know. It was concerned with no one thing in particular, for it was the primitive sadness of his whole race. He began to hum a song, and as MacLeod recognized the tune he joined him, singing the words in a melancholy cadence.
Horo ma Nighean Donn Bhoideach, Hiri mo Nighean Donn Bhoideach, mo Chaileag Laglach Bhoideach…

MacLeod stopped singing in the middle of a bar as he saw Archie's face rough with the growing redness about his eyes.

“I whill go home when I am the champion,” said Archie. “I could beat efferybody in Canada, the heavyweights too, and what difference would that make? I could go up to Montreal and knock out that bugger Masson if he would step into the ring with me, and what would the Canadian title be? They think they are better than the Yankees, but I–tell–you…” his fist pounded the bar…“it does not matter how good a man iss up there in Canada, the Yankees ha? got to say so before anybody in Canada will believe it. And that iss why I am going to beat the hell owt of Miller. And after Miller I will beat the hell owt of them all, and I will do it my own way.” He was shouting hoarsely now, his face dark with rage. “Then in Broughton they will not be able to say I am no good and why didn't I come home sooner.”

He dropped a bill on the bar and walked out of the saloon without waiting for change, leaving MacLeod with a flush on his face and a sensation of shame as he pulled on his mustache and wondered what he had said to anger his hero.

 

Thirteen

T
HE FIRST THING
Archie did when he reached his room in the hotel was to clear the desk of soiled clothes and old newspapers. He sat down and placed his hand on the rough green blotter and looked at the ink marks left by someone else's pen. Even the thought of writing a letter took more out of him than an hour's hard work in the gym, so he got up and went downstairs and ate a large meal. In the dining room it was easier to think about what he wanted to say to Mollie. The words formed themselves carefully in his head. But after dinner, when he reached the desk in his room again, the pieces of white hotel stationery daunted him. Finally he thought about Mollie's neat, lithe legs and before he could grow afraid of the paper again he began to scratch some words to her.

He said he wanted her to leave Broughton right away and come down and meet him in Trenton. Right away. He was going to beat Miller and she would be proud to see him do it. After that he would go on to be the champion and they could both go home together. He said nothing about Alan because right now he was lonely for Mollie and it was hard for him to think what Alan was like after four years. His childish handwriting crawled to the end of the page, where he signed his full name as it always appeared in the papers–
Archie MacNeil
from Cape Breton
. After he had folded the letter and put it in an envelope he felt better.

By Tuesday of the following week he had become tired of getting up early and skipping rope on the roads and no answer had come from Mollie. It was hot and the humid air of New Jersey had taken the starch out of his legs. He was tired and sick of being alone. So he stopped skipping rope since there was no one to time him and urge him on. Instead, he walked the streets of Trenton and the rage and sadness boiled in him. When he didn't want a woman, he wanted to fight somebody. He felt himself to be in a trap with the gate blocked by the grinning face of Packy Miller. He saw the hulking, pork-barrel body with the muscular forearms jerking up to guard the head and catch the attacker's wrists with the arm bones. Miller would come in low and try to butt, he would gouge and thumb and the fight would be as loose and dirty as the promoters thought the crowd would endure, and since this was Miller's home town the crowd would let anything go provided it was Miller who was getting away with it. With a neck like that one it would take half a dozen punches to rock him and as many more to put him to sleep, and he wondered how long he could keep Miller away from his eyes.

When thoughts like these made Archie forget where he was, he stopped and breathed three times deeply and let the air sigh out between his lips. Then he became calculating as again he saw clearly the essential thing. Miller would not do much at a distance. He would have to come in solid, and like all hookers he would be easy to hit. Maybe it would be Miller's eyes that would take the beating on Friday?

So Archie went on walking. He wanted to talk to somebody who knew what he was feeling and what he was up against. He wanted an experienced man–not a fool like MacLeod–to tell him he had been just as good on his last afternoon in the gym as he had thought he was, for if he was as good as he
thought he was he would have Miller rocking before the first round was over. He narrowed his eyes and continued to see everything coldly. It was going to be all or nothing in the first five rounds. The time was when he had entered the ring feeling easy because he had known the clock was on his side, but George Chip's left jabs and cutting rights had ended that time forever. He would have to hit Miller early.

An hour later he was still walking and by now he was another man again. The few drinks he had taken somewhere on the way to lighten the approach of the sunset had depressed him. He had never been left alone like this before a fight. He had never been turned loose with a roll of money that could mean only one thing. His own manager and trainer wanted him to lose.

Archie stopped in front of another saloon, but this time he decided not to go in. He leaned against a lamppost in front of it and for something to do to show his nonchalance he began to pick his teeth with a match. Men in work clothes lounged down the street or sat on nearby doorsteps talking in foreign tongues.

He looked at the broad shoulders of one of them with a fighter's appraisal of a possible enemy. Then he tossed the match away with a gesture of contempt. If a man was a fighter he would not be sitting on a doorstep in a street like this.

On the next corner he bought a newspaper and opened it at the sports page. It was a Trenton paper and they were beginning to build up publicity for the fight on Friday. He saw Miller's picture and also his own. There was no mention of the peculiar fact that he was no longer training in Mooney's gym. He was supposed to be with Sam Downey somewhere in New York.

It began to dawn on Archie by a method of reasoning he could scarcely have understood that this was not considered an important fight. Apart from the man who worked for a Newark paper–the one who had talked to him last week–
nobody was interested in him any more. Miller was the comer and MacNeil was already finished. They wrote about Miller because he had a future. About himself there was nothing but a few noncommittal words. They said he was tough and could take it. They added that Downey had reported him in good condition and that Downey admitted Miller was good but expected Archie would beat him.

Archie tore the paper in two and watched the parts of the separate halves flutter to the brick gutter. Then he thrust his hands deep in his pockets and walked more slowly now for another half hour. He wondered if he went to New York if he could find Charley Moss and tell him he was sorry he had man-handled him. He wanted Charley to be his friend in the corner on Friday night. But New York was a big place and probably as empty as a little place like Trenton. He lowered his head and walked on, a Highlander lost in the lowlands of the shrewd men. His battered features and huge hands frightened the old lady whom he bumped into as he turned a corner, but he was unconscious of her feelings and failed to notice her surprise at the gentle lilt in his voice when he touched his cap and told her he was sorry.

The space between now and Friday night closed abruptly. He no longer cared. Nothing existed for him any more but the necessity of escaping from the emptiness. Mollie was far away. She had always been far away. Far, far away ever since Alan was born. What did she know about it? What did she know about anything?

He found the woman he was looking for after a while, because there is always a woman in every emptiness who can sense the value to herself of a big man who is lonely and afraid. So for a time Archie forgot what he knew without knowing it.

 

Fourteen

T
HE STORY
about Archie MacNeil in the Newark paper was picked up by Canadian Press and one of the Halifax papers reprinted it in full several days later. That was where Angus the Barraman saw it when he pushed his cup of tea to one side of the kitchen table and opened the paper at the sports page. The kitchen, hot from the stove and steamy with dish water, was noisy with clattering dishes and an argument going on between three of his four children.

“Get owt of here,” Angus said to the boys, “before I whill be angry. Your father hass something important to think abowt.”

As soon as they had gone outside, he turned back to the paper and brooded with slow joy over the paragraph in which an American ring expert predicted victory for Archie MacNeil over Packy Miller in Trenton next Friday night. Angus read the paragraph twice, then looked up at the picture of the Sacred Heart over the table. Being a Barra MacNeil, he was a good Catholic and he took a long look at the picture for luck. Then he closed his eyes and let his mind dwell on the scene he hoped would be enacted in Trenton, and finally he could hold his excitement no longer.

“It looks good for Archie,” he said carefully.

His wife paid no attention as she kept on washing the dishes in the sink. Angus scratched his head and his voice became melancholy.

“The trouble iss, you neffer can tell for sure. God knows how it iss, but the Yankees always seem to win. That iss something I do not understand, for I ha? seen a Yankee once and he wass not so much.” He continued to scratch his head and his voice became more melancholy still. “I wonder whill there be dirhty tricks in Trenton next Friday night?”

Still his wife paid no attention to him.

“All the same,” Angus the Barraman went on, “Archie iss good, and by this time he should be knowing plenty of dirhty tricks hiss ownself, for there iss no doubt abowt it, he hass the cleverness.” He shook his head judiciously, as he had once seen Magistrate MacKeegan do when giving him a suspended sentence for being drunk and disorderly. “Look what Archie did to the champion of the Boston States that night in Jehovah!” He scratched his head again and looked puzzled. “Or wass it Jehovah, now? Where in hell wass the place where Archie knocked the hell owt of him?” He began to show relief. “Och yes indeed, I remember now. It wass Providence, and that iss the same thing whateffer. Look what Archie did that night to the champion of the Boston States!”

He stopped hopefully, and this time his wife decided to pay heed to him.

“You and Archie MacNeil! If you would think as much abowt getting to the pit on time as you do abowt him and hiss fights, we whould be haffing money in the drawer, mayhbe.”

“Hold your tongue, God dahmn you, for my legs iss hurting me! What would you be knowing abowt Archie, for God's sake now? When he iss good, he iss the best light-heavyweight in the world.”

“And what iss that, except something to be ashamed of? Your own sons ha? to hear you talk all day about that
good-for-nothing bruiser, and what iss the sense in me hoping some of them whill get the education, with you around?”

Angus looked at her square back and went on scratching. Then he got up and mumbled that he was going for a walk, and soon he was picking his way behind the houses to Mollie MacNeil's. He knocked on the scullery door and was admitted by Mollie herself. When he saw Alan in the kitchen, he winked at him solemnly and said that his elders had a matter of important business to discuss in the front room. Mollie showed him into the parlor and closed the door, and then Angus the Barraman took the paper from his pocket and spread it out on the table.

“There iss news,” he said solemnly.

Mollie read the paragraph without expression. Then she reread it very slowly as if committing it to memory, while Angus watched her face with the look of an Aberdeen terrier inspecting a marrowbone.

“Thank you for showing it to me, Mr. MacNeil.” She handed the paper back and forced a smile. “But he has not won yet.”

“Och, but hassn't he as good as whon?” Angus shifted from one foot to the other. “Look at the Yankees their ownselves admitting he iss going to?”

Again she smiled and walked with him to the door, knowing that Mrs. Angus would make trouble if she discovered he was here alone. Angus the Barraman shuffled out and went farther up the row looking for someone else to talk to. His initial optimism had now degenerated into a superstitious fear that he might have done Archie a bad turn by accepting the newspaper story at its face value, and he wished he had kept his mouth shut and not told Mollie her husband was sure to win. Three houses along the row he came upon Neilly MacKay on his doorstep and sat down beside him. After the two men had chewed tobacco for a while, Angus showed the paper to Neilly and Neilly read it with care. He said “Whell now!” and chewed some more, and at last the two men began
to talk. The more they agreed that Archie was the finest light-heavyweight in the world, the harder they worked at telling each other he was going to lose on Friday night. Something was going to happen, of that there was no doubt whatever. The sun had set before Angus felt he had been gloomy enough to appease the gods, and he shuffled homewards feeling more comfortable.

Back in her own parlor Mollie pulled a large oblong frame into the middle of the room and settled herself to work on the rug she had mounted on it. She was following a new pattern that Mrs. Ainslie had given her and she thought it was very beautiful. Mrs. Ainslie had shown her how to blend her colors in new ways. The design had been in a book belonging to the doctor and Mrs. Ainslie had explained that the pattern came from Persia where the most beautiful rugs in the world were made. The other Scotswomen in the row who had come in to look at it decided that Mollie was putting on airs. Who would walk on a thing as fancy as that, they had said. But the rug was more than half finished now and Mollie still liked it.

Tonight, however, she kept dropping the hook and every time she reached down to pick it up she felt the flutter in her stomach that always appeared whenever Archie was facing an important battle. It was a long time since she had felt it like this, but that was probably because she had received a letter from Archie at last, after all these months. And he wanted her to go to him. He loved her after all. She smiled quietly and the smile brightened her face. She was still smiling when the door creaked and Alan stood on the threshold in his nightgown and bare feet.

“Mummy, what did Mr. MacNeil want?”

“He had news of your father. Good news, too.”

Alan's face brightened. “Was Father's name in the paper again?”

“Indeed it was!”

“Let me see?”

“It was Mr. MacNeil's paper and he has taken it away with him.”

“Then I'll ask Mr. MacNeil tomorrow.”

“No, Alan, you must not do that.”

“Why?”

“Remember what I said–you are too young to be reading the newspaper.”

His face fell. “Then tell me what the paper said about Father.”

“Well, there wasn't much about him, but it said how well he is doing in the States.”

“Did it say when he was coming home?”

“Oh no, the paper would never say that. But we knew he was not coming home right away, didn't we?”

Alan moved towards her and began to stroke the edge of the finished part of the rug. “Mummy–what does a prize fighter do?”

She took in her breath with a little gasp and then she reached once more for the hook that had fallen to the floor.

“How did you ever hear a word like that?”

“Danny MacIsaac says they are men that fight in front of big crowds and the people in the crowds pay lots of money to watch them.”

She gave a nervous laugh. “What does little Danny MacIsaac know?”

Her fingers talked for her as she stroked his tousled hair. If only she could tell him that his father was a man with a profession like a doctor or a lawyer, or even a storekeeper, or even a foreman in one of the mines. She wanted her son to have everything, but most of all she wanted him to have a father he could be proud of, not a prize fighter to be ashamed of! If only Archie had not had so much of the wildness in him! But he loved her still. He had said so in the letter, and now as she
thought about him her body ached with longing. Meanwhile, Alan was waiting for an answer.

And suddenly she had an answer. If Archie ever did come home his fighting days would be over. So what was the harm in telling a small lie for Alan's sake? He always believed her.

She turned the boy around to face her. “You know your father is a very strong man and I have told you when he was young he knew how to fight. But so do all the boys in Broughton. Now you can hardly imagine your father doing anything rough or dishonest or shameful, can you now?”

“No.” He turned away again to finger the rug.

“The work your father is doing in the States is so special he couldn't do it here and that is why he has to go away. Lots of boys who grow up in Broughton go to the States to do their work. But he loves us very much. Wherever he is, that is what he is thinking about. And we couldn't ask for more than that, could we now?”

She was smiling again now, for the sound of her own words had convinced her that they were the essential truth. It was only when Alan turned to look at her with round eyes that told her nothing of his thoughts that she began to feel uneasy.

“But, Mummy, why can't you tell me what kind of work he does?”

She became flustered. “Well, it's–it's sort of a secret. But when he comes home he will tell us all about it himself.”

From the expression on Alan's face she knew he was going to ask her no more questions that day. She smiled with relief and pulled him towards her, balancing his weight against her thigh.

“Now–what really matters most to your father is what you work at yourself. You must grow up and finish school and get the education so you can become an important man. That is why I do not mind about your father being away for such a long time. When he is successful he will come home and then
he will have the money for us so we can do all those nice things we talk about.”

“Yes, Mummy,” Alan said.

“Now I'll tell you about the surprise I have for you.” She shifted her position and Alan slid to the floor and they laughed together at his awkward posture before he got to his feet.

“On Friday if it's fine we will go on another picnic, and this time we will get up early and go into Broughton and take the train for Mira and we will be away all day. Now then–what do you think of that?”

He leaned against her again. “A picnic when it's not even Saturday?”

“Yes. Friday is a sort of special day too, sometimes.” She got up and guided him towards the stairs with her hand on his shoulder. “Your father would like us to enjoy ourselves because he is such a great one to enjoy himself. Did I ever tell you about one time when he was still in the mines, he came home at the end of the day and got washed like all the other men in the row, then he put on his second best suit and got on the streetcar and went into Broughton after supper for a boxing match. He was very good, you know, and he loved it. He won his match and then he turned around and came home and washed again and changed into his other suit and I put on my best dress and we went back to Broughton to a dance. We danced all night long until five in the morning and by then I was so tired I could hardly stand up. But your father was not tired at all. The next day he went back to the mine as if he had slept all night.”

Alan tried to remember what his father was like. It was as hard as trying to remember how he had been born. His mother had told him about when he was born. She said she had wakened up one night and found him in bed beside her. He was very small, but the first thing he did was to reach up
and rub her nose with his fist. He thought he could remember rubbing her nose but he was not sure. His memory of his father was clearer than that. A red-haired man of great size with a wonderful laugh had carried Alan on his shoulder, and that was the way Alan always thought of him. But this story about the boxing and the dancing must have happened before he was born, because he could not remember his mother and his father doing anything like that.

He went upstairs ahead of her and climbed into his cot while she rubbed his chilled feet before pulling the covers over them. Then he lay back and looked up at her with round eyes as he thought about the picnic they would have on Friday.

“Mira is where the river is–isn't it, Mummy?”

“Yes, and it's one of the prettiest rivers in the world.”

“Is it as big as Dr. Ainslie's river?”

“Dr. Ainslie has only a brook. The Mira is so big it belongs to the government.”

“How can the government have a river? The government is in Ottawa.”

“Don't ask any more questions and close your eyes and we'll talk about it some more when we get there.”

He was asleep before she left the room.