The Equations of Love (12 page)

“Now we’re here you better come in,” said Mr. Mottle, and they went into the neat and linoleumed interior of his home and had a bit of bread and some cheese and some Postum because Mrs. Mottle was away and Mr. Mottle wasn’t such a hand at making coffee and you couldn’t ’ardly tell the difference.

“Mrs. Mottle shouldn’t a went to Calgary but nothing would do,” said Mr. Mottle. “She shouldn’t be travelling around. She’s a real liability to the railroads, she is. Mrs. Mottle’s got a heart,” and he looked seriously at Mort.

“Is that so,” said Mort, “tt tt, that’s too bad!”

“Yes, sir, Mrs. Mottle has a heart,” said Mr. Mottle, “but her younger sister was took sick in Calgary and nothing will do but she must go. She’s got trouble somewheres around the juggler, her sister has. They
call
it goitre, but it don’t sound like goitre to
me. I
think …” and he whispered to Mort.

“Oh, yeah, sure,” said Mort, nodding. “Sure.”

When they had finished the Postum and Mr. Mottle had washed up and put away, and again the little home was as neat and unattractive as a pin, they decided to go back to the office, because old Cameron didn’t like to ring up on the phone and no one there. So then they sat around and talked in a desultory fashion and it was quite late, about six o’clock, before the telephone rang to some purpose, and it was old Cameron.

“Yes, Mr. Cameron,” said Mr. Mottle into the telephone.

“…”

“Yes, Mr. Cameron.”

“…”

“Yes, Mr. Cameron.”

“…”

“No, there wasn’t. He never called up.”

“…”

“I’ll be sure to tell him … sure … hold them back … don’t let him send them … deliver the spray … and oh, say, Mr. Cameron, there’s” (voice lowered) “a nice feller here looking for a job. If I may suggest, just the feller to take Tompkins’ place if Tompkins goes … yes, experienced … no, he wasn’t fired … he just finished a landscapin’ proposition
up in West Vancouver and him and his wife would like to move out to Burnaby … yes, I know him well … known him for years … aunt’s an old friend of me and Mrs. Mottle … no, no … sure … I told him … no loafing on the job but he’s not that kind, Mr. Cameron … no … very good … I’ll tell him … and lay an order for ten more sacks … okay, Mr. Cameron.” And old Cameron rang off and so did Mr. Mottle.

“There, you heard me; he says to come around Monday and he’ll see you and I’d say the job is as good as yours,” and Morty thanked Mr. Mottle and thanked him again and as soon as it was decently possible to leave, he left, and walked down the rough irregular road bordered with half-cleared and uncleared land which led to the interurban car.

Morty sat on the interurban car and as he looked out of the window he did not see bush, small houses, bush, more bush, and drizzly grey mist sliding past. He saw himself and Myrtle settled without any trouble in a natty small home of their own, in a non-exacting and agreeable job, and in the perpetual sunshine that always surrounds one’s most indulgent dreams. As he approached the city boundary his dream was spiked by the thought of the possible non-concurrence of Myrtle. Incredible as it would seem to most people that Myrt might prefer the two slatternly rooms at the top of the house off Powell Street and the proximity of the movies and Irma Flask to a neat home of one’s own contriving and steady work in the country, it was none the less possible. However, Morty turned his mind away from anything as uncomfortable as argument with Myrtle, and as he got off the interurban car and walked towards and along Powell Street he was not really walking along Powell Street at all on a drizzly evening; but was idly basking in the sunshine outside a white cottage with blue trim on the windows, and Myrtle was inside the white cottage making coffee not Postum. He did not
see, on the other side of Powell Street, his wife’s cousin Victoria May Tritt who had paused to look at him, but his eyes picked up the tall figure of a drunk who lolled against the Fishermen’s Book Shop and gesticulated slowly and largely to the passers-by. His eyes informed his wandering mind that for gossakes if it wasn’t old Eddie; and so the moments of Mortimer Johnson and Eddie Hansen and Victoria May Tritt converged and met outside the Fishermen’s Book Shop. Morty quickened his steps. It
was
Eddie. Well, for gossakes.

The white cottage with blue trim vanished from Mort’s mind as he fetched up with old Eddie the silly old fool drunk there on Powell Street, and at almost the same minute Eddie became aware of Morty, and the handshaking and wrestling began to take place which Victoria May witnessed as she stood still on the other side of the road. Other people witnessed it, and all this to-do occasioned the turning aside and going around of passers-by who did not necessarily wish to become involved in the affectionate greeting of two old friends or drunks. Eddie and Mort swayed to and fro, talking at the same time, and Morty thought it would be a good thing to get old Eddie to turn around and go back with Morty to the Regal Rooms where Eddie stayed; but Eddie thought that it would be a good thing to get old Morty to go along to the dock with him and see if they couldn’t find that suitcase of Eddie’s down there. And because Eddie was stronger, and drunk, and impervious to argument, and because Mort was so glad to see Eddie, drunk or sober, that he’d do anything to oblige, they set off, clasping each other, in the direction of the dock; and Victoria May, who could no longer see them for the crowd and the mist, hastened on her way to church.

Morty felt some kind of protective feeling for Eddie drunk. He had never come across Eddie drunk before. He had
got drunk
with
Eddie, which was quite a different thing, and did not engender a protective feeling. But now Morty, sober, with a fellow-feeling for Eddie (high-rigger, swell fellow, good old Eddie) drunk, shepherded and steered and protected Eddie although he had no confidence that they would ever find the suitcase on the dock – but, just to oblige, he did this; and it was a good thing he’d happened along, because by the time they reached the dock it was quite dark and the rain made the visibility very bad and goodness knows what would have happened to Eddie the old fool crossing the street if Morty hadn’t been along to take care of him. Mort, I wish you to understand, was very very kind to Eddie, and almost gentle with him, if anyone can be gentle with a high-rigger who measures over six feet and is drunk.

By the time they reached the place at which you turn off to go down to the dock – and their progress had been slow – the street lights were all on, and there is nothing like street lights for announcing the arrival of night. It was unquestionably night. A light shone in an office where the Company’s dock watchman was on duty. But as the watchman had gone into the lavatory for a moment, he could not and did not see the wavering arguing figures of two men, one tall and one shorter, cross the beam of light that fell from his window upon the wooden planking of the dock. He did not see the two men advance onto the dock. If he had, he would have gone out and shouted Hey at them, and found out what they were doing there, and turned them back if he could. But as he was in the washroom, no one saw Eddie and Mort walk together along the dock in the direction of a faint high light at the end of the dock, both of them fairly contented, yes,
very
contented in their own mutual company. It did not occur to Morty to be nervous of Eddie’s safety on a dock when he was drunk,
because Mort knew, if he had happened to think of it but he didn’t, that Eddie had teetered about on half the docks and wharves of the logging camps of the coast of British Columbia and had never fallen in yet and never would. So Morty did not accompany Eddie on to the dock with any idea of protecting him from falling in – trust Eddie – but for the pleasure of being with him and because when they did not find the suitcase – and they would not – then Morty would go with Eddie back to the Regal Rooms and see him to bed. And next day he would go back and visit with him. He really did not think of Myrtle at all, and anyway he literally had his hands full, clutching hold of two hundred and forty pounds of old Eddie.

Eddie, whose head was clearing a little, had a lot to tell Mort about the fellows they both knew who used to be up at Jervis Inlet and especially about a very very funny guy called Mike Jerkin who was now with Eddie at Knight Inlet who had a stammer which he used to exploit when he got in wrong with people and whom Eddie could take off to the King’s taste; and Eddie broke away from Mort and acted out Mike Jerkin the time the moose got into the cook-house. By this time they had reached the end of the dark and meagrely lighted wharf and had for a moment forgotten about the suitcase because of Eddie telling in a very drunken way – but still funny – about what Mike Jerkin said to the moose, when Eddie took a lunge in his story and stepped off the dark wharf into the dark night and fell with a tremendous splash into the dark water which closed over him and only a dirty spangly light moved on the surface of the water, although there were signs of commotion beneath.

E
verything in the world narrows down now with horrid immediacy and intensity to only Eddie struggling alone down there in the dark and churning up the spangly water and clawing the empty water in panic haste because he cannot swim, and only Mort crouched alone up there in the dark … in the sky it seems … his arms extended, looking down into the high tide water under the dim light at the place where Eddie churns his way up to the surface of the water. Everything in the world vanishes, gives way, all laughing and story give way to Mortimer’s terror as, crouched with his arms extended as if frozen there, he sees the dark agitation of the water with its dirty spangled light and then he sees the white face of Eddie, staring, unrecognizable in its surprised fear, rise for a moment above the indifferent moving water. And at the sight of this white patch of face turning, choking, shouting, covered again, sinking again Mort is vicariously in Eddie there; he is Eddie, struggling there. And he moves, and is released, and shouts, and does not know that he shouts and shouts and looks wildly around and runs wildly around and comes back for anything. Is that a rope yes it is a coiled
rope. And he throws the end of the rope and it misses, and he leans far down and takes a good purchase on it and throws it again to poor old Eddie Mort Eddie who is going to drown sure if Mort doesn’t do something quickly but I don’t have to jump in do I Myrtle do I Eddie no no I don’t have to jump in do I: and he sees again the ghastly face above the water. And the rope because it is not attached and has no purchase runs smoothly out and falls into the sea, and so because Mort has no real purchase, he falls into the sea, and Eddie who is strong, and is dying, and does not wish to die, seizes hold of Mort, and the empty water slides through Mort’s fingers, and he seizes Eddie and they fight there, choking, grappling, the two good friends, in the dark water …

… but have to live and is drowning me God God what a fool blasted fool me Myrtle kitchen me Myrtle bedroom I mighta been there now little white house what white house Myrt God fool Eddie … bitterness despair anguish dreadful tearing anguish. And the water suffocated his eyes and blinded his lungs and Eddie held him tangled with hands and arms and legs and the agony grew and grew and at last diminished and ceased and Mort and Eddie in their loosening embrace sank uselessly down through the dark water and became both of them drowned men.

Woe for Mort. Woe for Mort’s angel speeding away with an inaudible cry.

U
nder the street light the small group of people which became added to, person by person, until it was a crowd, discussed and elicited and exchanged information and opinions until facts seemed to be established and passed around that two men had been drowned and one was Mortimer Johnson who was a Vancouver man and lived up there off Powell Street and the other was a big fellow who looked like a logger and that they were drunk. People had seen people who knew Mortimer Johnson and had seen the two men wrastling on Powell Street, and some men coming away from working late at the freight shed had seen them going along onto the dock together and had mentioned it at the time hadn’t they, because one said that that was Mort Johnson because he saw him every day. And the night watchman, although he hadn’t exactly seen them go onto the dock, had heard something, and he went out, and listened, and there was someone shouting and shouting, and he was sure he saw someone at the very end of the wharf, and he ran back and got his torch, and he went down the wharf, and no one was there but there was something happening in the water and he
moved his torch light about over the water and there was a hat; and a rope that he had meant to put away had gone; and he got scared and took out the rowboat but he couldn’t find anything but the hat – that was the watchman’s story. And then when the police came they checked on everything and made further enquiries.

Having discussed all of this with solemnity, and some relish, and some awe (because death was so near in time and space), the crowd lost interest and melted away, making remarks, and left only Victoria May Tritt who at first couldn’t believe that Myrt’s husband Morty was dead because strangers said so. But as she stood there really stunned, she saw again, as in her mind, Morty approaching the big logger, and Morty and the big logger eventually going off down Powell Street, Mort sober and the logger drunk, and this scene which she had beheld bore witness to her that what the strangers standing under the street light had said must be true, because how could they have made it up. It was so clear in her mind that Morty was sober when he walked down Powell Street that she did not realize, however, that the people assumed that both men were drunk, and that was why they fell in and got drowned. She came to herself, as they say, and was very unhappy and was consumed with sorrow that Morty had died, not an hour since, and how would Myrtle bear it because they were such an ideal couple. She thought she had better go and see Myrtle because she herself had seen Morty so well and happy just a very little while ago and she must go and tell Myrtle that, and perhaps she could do something for her. But what could she – Vicky – do for anyone; she did not know what you do when your cousin’s husband has just been drowned and your cousin’s heart is broken, but you must go to her just the same. She was so stricken and so sorrowful that she did not feel shy in the ordinary way. But this was
an extraordinary thing that might make anyone not know just what to do even if they were much easier about things than Vicky. Even Mrs. Emblem, for instance.