"What?"

"Vera, I know Grosvenor loves you. But I do too."

"Ha, ha!"

"Don't laugh, Vera. I do love you. Honestly I do."

"Listen to me," she said. "You don't know what love is. Just remember this, Ginger. Love is unselfish, it's doing things for other people and not asking them to do things for you. If you really loved me, you'd let me go. You'd give me a divorce. You'd think of my happiness and not your own. Gerry does. Now, go back to your own bed. Good night."

He stood up. Heavily he recrossed the room. He got into his bed and lay down on his side, looking at the darkness where she was. Unselfish. So that was what she wanted. Some proof of devotion greater than self. Was that the thing that would win her back? Was it? He rolled over and stared at the invisible ceiling. Love is unselfish. Was that what she had found lacking in his love for her? Was that why Grosvenor, weeping but prepared to wait, had won her instead? If only he could think this out. If only his brain could puzzle out what she had said and find the answer, that absolute answer he felt he had almost grasped.

It was tiring to think. He was not used to thinking in abstractions. But still — was selflessness what he lacked? Was that true love? Would the greatest proof of his love for her be his willingness to sacrifice himself, the way Jesus had sacrificed himself for mankind? Jesus considered that the highest form of love, didn't he? Well, there you are, then.

"Vera?" he said.

"Go to sleep."

"Listen, Vera," he said. "I've made up my mind. If I don't get that reporter's job at the end of this week, I'll bow out. If I don't get it, you can go back to Gros-

venor and you can take Paulie. And 111 give you your divorce into the bargain. Now, isn't that unselfish of me? Isn't it?"

He waited for her answer. There was no answer. "I mean it," he said. He did mean it.

Twelve Next morning he awoke on the cross of his new obsession. He woke and went to work, a man who had decided to gamble his all on one event. He started fresh on that Wednesday morning, convinced that if he got the job, all his worries would end. Veronica would stay, Grosvenor would disappear, Paulie would be his Apple again, his future would be assured.

And if he did not get die job? If he did not get the job he would go down like a man. Lonely and proud, he would cast himself adrift from all who knew him, his boats burned forever. He would prove to her that he was a man of his word, the most unselfish lover in all the world, a man who could do a far, far better thing than Grosvenor ever would.

Not that he thought he'd have to, mind you. No, he was going to get the job, for sure. J. F. CoflFey, Journalist, Coffey of the Tribune, why that was only a matter of days and hours now. And so, that Wednesday morning, fixed on the cross of his obsession, he began to measure off those hours. As he drove through the city delivering diapers, his mind moved from hopes to faits accomplis. By mid-afternoon he had convinced himself that he had no time to lose. For, since he was getting this new job on

Friday next, he should be starting his preparations now, shouldn't he? Right, then. He had no time to lose.

At four-thirty that afternoon, his delivery route completed, he walked into the TINY ONES depot and gave notice.

"What?" Mr. Mountain rose up in alarm, his great stomach overlapping the military array of folders on the desk. "What's the matter, Coffey, we not treating you right?"

"It's not that, sir. It's just that this other job is more in my line. The job with you was more or less a stopgap."

"Well, eff me," Mr. Mountain said. "Reporter, eh? What paper?"

"The Tribune, sir."

"The Tribune, eh?" Distractedly, Mr. Mountain ran four plump fingers through the soft thickness of his detergent-colored hair. "This puts me on a spot," he said. "What am I going to tell the boss?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, this is strictly classified info, Coffey, but the fact is you're up for promotion."

"Oh?"

"Mr. Brott himself is interested. Told me to keep you happy. Said he was finding an office spot for you soon. It's

going to reflect on my department, you walking out like

. i . »

this.

Now that was nice to hear, wasn't it? Damn right it was. He wished to goodness Veronica were in the room. They want to keep me on and promote me. Well Vera, what do you think of that?

"Look, I'm not unhappy with the job or with the way I've been treated," Coffey told Mr. Mountain. Til be glad to explain that to Mr. Brott, if you like."

"Tell you what," Mr. Mountain said. "I think this is a

case for top brass. Tell you what —" He paused, staring with great solemnity at Coffey. "I'm going to the boss himself!"

He picked up the phone, a man assuming command. "Wait outside," he said.

So Coffey stepped outside. In a moment or two, Mr. Mountain dashed to the door, beckoning him. "Wants to speak to you himself" he whispered. "Mr. Brott."

He handed Coffey the telephone. At the other end of the line a crackly, testy voice said: "That you, Coffey? A. K. Brott here."

"Yes, sir."

"What's this about quitting? Now, you listen to me. You come right over here. I want to talk to you."

"But I have to start my night job, sir, I wouldn't be able to manage —"

"What time do you start?"

tcr, . . «

Six, sir.

"Give me Stan."

Coffey gave him Mr. Mountain. "Yessir," Mr. Mountain said briskly. "Right, sir. Roger, sir. Thank you, sir." He put the phone down. He picked up his hat, stared at Coffey with some distaste. "Get in my car," he said. "I've got to deliver you."

So they got in Mr. Mountain's car and drove up to the TINY ONES head office. There was no conversation en route: Mr. Mountain clearly believed this disruption in the chain of command to be above and beyond the call of duty. Coffey felt embarrassed. It was not Mr. Mountain's job to chauffeur him. Especially when it was all a waste of time.

Among the display of ex-voto scenes in A. K. Brott's office several advertising roughs were pasted on a board. They bore a vaguely familiar slogan:

RENT-A-CRIB SERVICE

Why Buy? We Supply

TINY ONES INC.

"That's right," Mr. Brott said, pointing to the board. "I checked into that idea, had a survey done and now I'm ready to go. That's what I want to talk to you about. What's this about you quitting?"

"I'm going to become a journalist, sir."

"Reporter?"

CC-V7 . 99

Yes, sir.

"Never saw a reporter in this province you couldn't buy off for twenty bucks in a plain envelope. So, forget that. You're a smart fella, Coffey, and I'm going to make you a good offer. A once-in-a-lifetime offer — take it or leave it."

Coffey fiddled with his little green hat. Nice to know that old Brott thought well of him, but to tell the truth, if he never saw a nappy again, it would be far too soon. Still, it was a good omen, wasn't it? The tide was turning, his luck had changed and surely, surely, in less than forty-eight hours, MacGregor would come through and J. F. Coffey, Journalist, Coffey of the Tribune —

"Matter of fact, I should have acted sooner," Mr. Brott said. "Just goes to show, in things like this you've got to pee or get off the pot. So, okay. Here's what I'm going to do. I'll make you my personal assistant at ninety bucks a week."

Personal Assistant to the Managing Director of Kyle-more Distilleries . . . Personal bumboy to old Cleery in the advertising . . . glorified secretary at Coomb-Na-Baun. Coffey stared at A. K. Brott's small gray face.

"No," he said in a strangled whisper.

"No? Look, what's the matter with you? Personal Assistant, do you realize the chance I'm giving you?"

"Do I?" Coffey echoed. "Fetch me this and fetch me that. Run down for cigarettes. Book me a table. I'm no glorified secretary, I'll have you know. I'm going to be a reporter by the end of this week."

"You're crazy."

"Ah no," Coffey said. "What do you think I came to this country for? Sure, didn't I leave a job as Personal Assistant in a far bigger company than this — this laundry will ever be? No thank you."

"Well, that's your mistake," Mr. Brott said, shaking his little gray head. "Rent-A-Crib — now there you were using your head, Coffey. When a guy gives me a worthwhile idea, I like to pay for it. As my assistant, you could have had yourself a nice steady job. Reporter? You're nuts. Come on now?"

"No," Coffey said. "I want to be a reporter."

"Well, it's your funeral," A. K. Brott said. "Sorry you feel this way. Stan?"

Mr. Mountain appeared in the doorway. "Yessir?"

"Stan, drive Coffey down to his newspaper. And get a replacement. He's quit us. Take him off the payroll."

"Roger Dodger," said Mr. Mountain.

Personal Assistant! It just showed you, unless you had the guts to believe in yourself, what you started off as you would wind up as, even over here. Thanks be to God he would never go back to that, thanks be to God he had the strength to refuse once and for all. Glorified secretary, indeed! Running errands now and forever more, amen. Ah, shove your bloody Personal Assistant once and for bloody all! Shove it!

"What's the matter with you? You look mad," Fox said.

"Nothing," Coffey said. "I was just thinking about something. I turned down a job today."

But Fox did not seem to hear. He fed two new galleys in Coffey's direction. "Let's get rolling," he said. "Old Billy Davis has reported sick tonight. We're a man short."

"What's the matter with Old Bill?" Kenny asked.

"A cold, he says."

Blast Old Billy, Coffey thought. What's he getting sick for when I need him here? But a cold was nothing. No need to panic, was there? Right, then. He picked up a fresh galley.

Next morning, Coffey broke the breakfast silence with an announcement. "This is my last day on the delivery job," he said.

"What happened?" Veronica wanted to know. "Did they lay you off?"

Now, wasn't that typical?

"They did not," he said. "I resigned. Matter of fact they offered to promote me and take me into the office. That's how well they think of me, if you want to know."

"And you resigned?"

"Too right, I did. I told you, I'm going on the editorial staff of the Tribune as of next week. Friday will be my last night in the proofroom."

"Honestly, Daddy?" Paulie said. It was the first direct word she had spoken to him in days.

"Yes, Pet. Word of honor."

"Oh, that's super," Paulie said, looking pleased. "Then you and I can go skiing. Remember, you promised?"

"Don't count your chickens," Veronica said to Paulie. "And hurry now, you'll be late for school."

Don't count your chickens . . . Wasn't that the height of her, putting the child against him every chance she

got? But he would not let her annoy him. He went off to his last day of TINY ONES deliveries and spent it happily, settling up his accounts with the housewives on his route. Naturally, he told all his customers the good news. And the ladies were impressed. A reporter, now that was a glamorous job, one woman said. And another said he was a credit to his family. Yes, they congratulated him, wished him the best of luck and one or two of them even offered him a tip. Which was well meant, not mortifying at all; there was no harm in it. He took the money so as not to hurt their feelings and bought candies for all the little boys on his route.

At four sharp, he turned over his uniform, his accounts and his truck to Mr. Mountain. At four-thirty, after saying good-by to Corp and the other lads, he walked out of the depot, a free man. By six he was at the Tribune, ready for a good night's work, his hopes high, his obsession well stoked. And at five past six — hooray! Fox came in with a brand-new proofreader.

A new man. Coffey studied him. He was elderly, the new man. He wore long combinations under his rolled-up shirt sleeves and he read the first galley as carefully as if it were his own insurance policy. Ah, good man yourself, New Man. You'll do. A night to learn the ropes and Ginger Coffey will give you all the hand you want. And lend a hand he did, hitching his steel chair close to the new man's, keeping a brotherly eye on the new man's performance.

MacGregor came at ten, did not look at Coffey, examined the new man's work with his customary displeasure, said that Old Billy Davis was still sick, and passed on out of the composing room. Later, Fox told them that Old Billy had flu.

"Flu," Coffey said. "Sure, that's nothing/'

"Old Billy's seventy-two, you know," Fox said.

Coffey put that worry out of his mind. Next morning, when he woke, he believed his only remaining trial was how to wait out the day. For it was Friday. Mafeking Relieved. Irish Guards Pull Out. He lay late, listening to the indistinct mumble of his womenfolk in the kitchen, half wishing that he had a day of diaper deliveries to occupy him until the news came through this afternoon.

At half past eight, just before she left for work, Veronica put her head in the bedroom door. "Isn't today the day you expect to be promoted?" she said.

"Didn't I tell you it was!"

"You did, Ginger. You also made a promise to me the other night in bed. Do you still feel that way?"

"You never even answered me the other night," he said, reproachfully.

"What was the use answering you, when you'll renege on it for certain."

"Did I say I'd renege on it?" he asked her.

"Well — are you going to?"

"I am not," he said. "As I told you the other night, if I don't get that job today you can have your divorce and Paulie and all the rest of it. I'll show you who's selfish!"

"Do you mean that, Ginger? Honestly and truly?"

"I do," he said. "But I am getting the job, don't forget. It's promised."

"All right. I was only asking. I wanted to see if you were serious."

She went out. He lay for a while, thinking of their exchange. Wasn't that women for you, never letting on they heard a word and then, two days later, coming out with the whole thing. So she thought he'd renege, did she? Well, he'd show her. Not that he'd have to, of course. Of course not.

He lay abed, listening as Paulie left for school in her usual, late-flying rush. Then he got up, shaved and

dressed with the care of a man preparing for some court function. His only worry, as he saw it, was how to wait until four. At four, the night staff were entitled to go and pick up their pay checks. And as all staff changes were reported on payday in the pay office, Hennen would know. But, flute! It was a long, long morning.

At a quarter to four, having already waited fifteen minutes in the corridor, Coffey went into the Tribune business office and idled by the cashier's wicket, trying to catch Mr. Hennen's eye. Mr. Hennen, an old bird in his cage, busied himself with his ledgers, aware of Coffey, but determined to make him wait each agonizing second until the hour. The office clock's second hand circled, the minute hand jerked up one black notch, the hour hand moved imperceptibly closer. At the precise moment that all three reached the hour, Coffey stepped up to the wicket. Mr. Hennen laid down his pen, fussed with his black sleeve protectors and looked in Coffey's direction. "Name?" he shouted.

"J. F. Coffey."

Mr. Hennen riffled through a sheaf of pay checks and slipped one through the wicket. "Don't spend it all at once," he said.

"By the way — I — ah — I wonder if you'd have a note about a staff change?" Coffey said. "A transfer for me?"

Mr. Hennen cocked his old parrot head to one side. "Transfer?" He opened another ledger and took out four little yellow slips. He riffled through them. "These here are all the new staff changes. Your name's not in."

"Perhaps it hasn't come down yet?"

"All changes came in at noon. So it won't be for next week, fella."

"But Mr. MacGregor promised me . . "

"Did he now?" Mr. Hennen said, and winked.

Coffey turned from that wicked parrot eye, afraid. What did that wink mean? Surely . . .

"Hey, wait a minute/' Mr. Hennen said. "One of your fellas is sick. Phoned up, wants someone to take his check over to him. Let's see. Davis is the name. Want to take it to him?"

Old Billy. There was the reason he had not been promoted. That was what Mr. Hennen knew and had not said. Coffey went back to the wicket, heartsick with anger against old doddering Bill. Why did he have to get sick this week, of all weeks? It was not fair. Bloody Old Bill! "All right," he said. "HI take it to him/'

Mr. Hennen passed over an addressed envelope and Coffey went out into the streets again. Bill's place was a room over a small clothing store, in a street three blocks from the Tribune offices. The landlord, an aged French-Canadian who spoke no English, looked at W. DAVIS on the pay envelope, then nodded and led Coffey up the back stairs to a door at the end of a dark corridor. Coffey knocked.

"Come in," an old voice called.

The room reminded Coffey of Veronica's, but there was a difference. Old Billy had lived here a long time. There was a small electric hotplate, an old icebox, a green card table on which a large orange cat licked its paws. The walls were shelved with many books in fruit-crate containers. There were several snapshots on the walls, and an ingenious device of extension cords and three-way plugs so that Old Billy could turn on and off the lights from any chair or corner. On the bed lay the master of the room, his frail body invisible beneath a heap of quilts, his plumy

goatee jutting upwards in the direction of the water-stained ceiling. "It's Paddy, isn't it?" he said. "Did you bring my check, Paddy?"

Coffey removed a fold-up chair from the stack beside the card table. The cat made a hissing noise of dislike. The chair had not been opened for many a year; dust lay thick in its crevices; its hinged joints were stiff. He put it at the head of the bed and sat down. He handed over the envelope.

Frail old fingers fumbled with the flap. "Full check/' Old Billy said. "Didn't dock me sick pay, I see. Good. And how are you, lad? What's new?"

Coffey did not answer. He looked at the old man's arm, protruding from a worn pajama sleeve. On the skeletal wrist was a faded tattoo. A harp, a shamrock and a faint script: ERIN Go BRAGH. Above this tattoo was another, a heart pierced by an arrow, and entwined with a motto: BILL LOVES MIN.

"Are you Irish, Billy?" Coffey said. "That harp?"

"Course I'm Irish," Old Billy said. "William O'Brien Davis. Fine Irish name."

"But you were born over here?"

"No, sir. I'm an immigrant, same as you. Donegal man, born and bred. Came out here when I was twenty years old, looking for the streets that were paved with gold." Billy's mouth opened in a chuckle, showing his hard old gums. "Yes," he said. "I've been all over, Atlantic to Pacific and back again. Been north of the Circle too, and down south as far as the Gulf of Mexico. Yes, I been all over the States; seen them all, all forty-eight. Never found any gold streets, though. No sir."

But Coffey did not join in the old man's laugh. He stared at that skeletal forearm. BILL LOVES MIN. Where and in what long ago had Bill loved Min? Where was Min

now? How many years had Old Bill lain here in this room, watched over only by the inhuman, unblinking eyes of his orange cat?

"Yes, all I got to show now is forty dollars a month on the Old Age pension," Bill said. "A man can't live on that nowadays. Even me, and I don't hardly eat but a bowl of Campbell's Soup once a day. And beer. Beer's what keeps me going. That's why this proofreading job was such a blessing. Lots of beer."

"But you still have the proofreading job," Coffey said. "We've been expecting you back tonight."

"Not tonight," Old Billy said. He touched his chest. "Got something in here, the doctor says. I've got to rest."

"But you'll be back," Coffey said. "In a day or two—"

"It was the Tribune doctor who saw me," Old Bill said. "They have my number. Hear they hired a new man already."

"The new man's not a replacement for you," Coffey said. "He's my replacement. They're making me a reporter next week. Now, listen, Bill. Tonight, I'm going to see MacGregor, I'll tell him you'll be back in a day or two. You'll be up and about in no time."

The old man's eyes had closed. He appeared to be sleeping.

"Bill, listen?" Coffey said. "Bill, are you asleep?"

"Plenty of time to sleep," the old voice said. "Not much else to do but sleep when you're living on the Old Age. Be all right, though. I've got all my things here. Bowl of soup, that's good enough. And a beer. The odd beer . . ."

His toothless mouth remained open on that sentence. His hand, holding the pay check, slid over the quilt and bumped against Coffey's knee. The envelope fell on the floor. Carefully, Coffey picked it up and put it on the card table. Carefully, he leaned over the old face. Yes, Bill was asleep.

"I'll be back, Bill," Coffey said in a whisper. He lifted up the skeletal arm, covered it with the quilt. Yes, J. F. Coffey, Journalist, would come back; oh yes, Billy, I promise you, I'll come back every week, I won't forget you. I'll bring beer. Every time, a case of beer.

But would he? Another promise. Would he Judas Old Billy along with the rest of them? For Old Billy might not come back to work. Old Billy might never be back. Coffey tiptoed to the door, opened it with infinite precaution, and went out into the dark corridor.

Irish. An immigrant, same as you. A young wanderer, once, traveling through this land of ice and snow, looking for the bluebird. ERIN Go BRAGH. But was it really ERIN FOREVER? What trace of Erin was left on William O'Brien Davis save that harp and shamrock, that motto, faded as the old reminder that BILL LOVES MIN? Would Ginger Coffey also end his days in some room, old and used, his voice nasal and reedy, all accent gone? "Yes, I'm Irish. James Francis Coffey. Fine Irish name."

No, no, that wasn't going to happen to him. Not to J. F. Coffey, Journalist. Never mind Old Billy, he was going to get that reporting job. Tonight he was. It was all arranged. He wasn't going to wait for MacGregor to speak to him, he must speak to MacGregor himself, remind him — yes, MacGregor was a busy man, it might have slipped his mind. And a promise is a promise. So, all right then. See MacGregor.

Because it was pay night, Fox and the others had spent their usual two hours in the tavern before coming to work. This meant that only Coffey and the New Man were not under the weather. So Coffey read the major number of galleys before the first edition. He and the New Man were working at the same desk, sober men and true. Ah,

New Man! Good man yourself. You front-line troop relief!

At ten, when supper bell sounded, MacGregor had not put in an appearance. Coffey could wait no longer. He went to the office. But MacGregor was in conference with the telegraph editor, which meant that Coffey had to wait in the corridor until ten past ten. At last, when the telegraph editor went out, in went Coffey.

"What do you want?" MacGregor said.

"It's the two weeks, sir. It's up, as of tonight."

"What two weeks?"

You see! It had slipped MacGregor's mind; so it was a lucky thing Coffey had decided to take the bull by the horns, wasn't it? Glad that he had come, he spoke up. "You remember, sir, about making me a reporter? You promised two weeks ago."

"Aye," MacGregor said. "Well, we're still short-staffed in the proofroom, as you know. Man sick."

"Yes, sir. But I went to see Old Billy Davis today and he's feeling much better. He'll be back to work in a day or two at the latest. Now I wondered, in view of that, perhaps you'd make the change now and start me off as a reporter next week?"

"No."

"But I've been expecting it," Coffey said, feeling his face grow hot. "I've been counting on it, sir. I hardly think

..» r » »

it s tair.

"Fair? What? What the hell are you talking about? Now go on — take your arse out of here before I kick it out."

"No!" Coffey said, in a sudden shocked rage. "You made me a promise. I've been working like a bloody slave for the past three weeks in hopes of this. I gave up another job because of it. I promised my wife and daughter. You don't know how much this means to me, sir. It's very important."

"Clarence?" MacGregor shouted. The fat man rushed in, notebook at the ready. "Now, Coffey," MacGregor said. "Tell it to us again."

"You promised me," Coffey said, feeling his tongue thick and confused. "You promised that you'd promote me as soon as you had a replacement in the proofroom. Well, that new proofreader's been here three days now. He's a good man too."

"What new reader?"

"Rhodes, sir," Clarence said. "Replacement for old Davis."

"But Billy's coming back," Coffey began. "He needs the job. You're not going to throw him —"

"Doctor said bronchial trouble, sir," Clarence told his chief.

"Aye." MacGregor nodded his head. "Bronchial trouble. He won't be back."

"But you promised me." Coffey turned to Clarence. "You were here. You heard him."

"I don't recall any promise," Clarence said.

"Aye," MacGregor said. "Go on back to your desk, Coffey."

"No, it's not fair! Dammit, is that the way you keep your word?" Coffey shouted.

"Perhaps I'd better phone the lobby, sir," Clarence said. "And ask them to send Ritchie up."

Ritchie? Ritchie was the doorman. A blackness sealed Coffey's eyes. For a moment he stood, dizzy, their voices fading in his ears. Doorman? To throw him out?

". . . had quite enough of this," MacGregor's voice said. "Now go on back to your wurrk or you'll not be paid."

"That's it, fella," Clarence said. A hand took Coffey's arm. "Come on, now."

"No," Coffey said. "Dammit, no!"

"Listen to me, you." The blackness cleared from in front of Coffey's eyes and he saw MacGregor leaning across the desk. A large blue vein pumped in MacGregor's pale, bony skull. "If you think I have any notion of making you a reporter after the way you carried on tonight, you're sadly mistaken. Now, get back to that proof desk and thank your stars I don't kick your arse right out of this building. Is that clear?"

Clear? He shook himself free of Clarence's arm. He turned back into the corridor. The composing room bell shrilled, calling the readers back to work. Dazed, he walked towards the sound of the bell.

The new proofreader, Mr. Rhodes, was surprised at the difference in the Irishman's behavior when the Irishman came back from his supper break. Until now he had thought of the Irishman as the hardest-working, most respectable man on the shift, the only one you would not be ashamed to introduce to your friends. Obliging, sober, well-spoken, not cursing and half drunk like the rest of these bums.

Mr. Rhodes was on pension from the railroad and had only taken this job to help his wife make payments on a little place they were buying up North. He had been unpleasantly surprised by the class of man he found himself working with, and, in fact, would have resigned the second night had it not been for the Irishman's helping hand and courtesy. But now, when the big fellow came back and sat down at the desk beside Rhodes, he began to show signs that he might be every bit as unstable as the others. For one thing, he hardly did a tap of work for the rest of the shift. He sat there, his face like a wooden idol, muttering filthy language under his breath. Had he too been drinking, Rhodes wondered? Indeed, it would be no surprise, for in all Rhodes's years in the railroad's ac-

counting department, he had never met such a low class of man as Fox or Harry or that young lad with the eczema. So at the end of the night's work, when he heard the big fellow say that he would go out for drinks with the rest of them — well, thought Rhodes, I was mistaken, he's a bum like the others. No money was worth it, to be forced to spend your retirement years in the company of men like these. No. Next Friday, Rhodes decided, 111 give notice.

"Come on, Paddy," Harry said. "We have a jug at Rose's place."

They stood on the steps of the Tribune building. Down the street, brightlit in the night silence, a sign winked on and off. FIVE-MINUTE LUNCH. "Rose?" Coffey said.

"Rose of the rosy teats," Fox shouted. "Come on, lads."

The Five-Minute Lunch was open all night. There, under the rumble of transcontinental trains leaving on track, arriving on track, gathered a nightly cross-section of city owls. Bus drivers on the late trick, their change machines extracted and placed carefully beside their coffee and eggs; colored sleeping car porters from the railroad terminus across the street, magpie collections of abandoned newspapers and magazines stuffed in the handles of their overnight bags; consumptive-looking French-Canadian waiters stealing a break from the boredom of fifth-rate nightclubs; middle-aged whores, muffled in babushkas, snow boots and sensible wool scarves, condemned by the winter to come in often out of the cold; night postal clerks; ticket collectors; cleaning men. And behind the long mica-and-chrome serving-counter, under framed, hand-lettered cards — WESTERN SANDWICH, KNACKWURST & BEANS, SPAGHETTI & MEATBALLS — the queen of this night hive moved, never off her paining feet, never hurried, never done. Rose Alma Briggs.

"Rosy, dear/' Fox said, rapping his cane on the counter.

Rose sent two eggs, sunny side up, flipping onto a plate. She turned, acknowledged the greeting with a nod. She was powdered and clean; she wore a white nylon coat, white rubber shoes and white lisle stockings. Under the transparent coat, a white slip. And biting tight into the soft pink flesh of her fat soft shoulders, white straps like tiny tent ropes converged to a double support of the mammary mountains trembling in bondage underneath.

"Evening, Mr. Fox. What'll it be?"

"Ever practical," Fox said. "We will have the usual. Three times. This is our co-worker, Mr. Coffey."

"Pleased to meet you," Rose said. She opened a glass jar, removed three pickled eggs, put three slices of rye bread on three plates; then, turning again, looked at Coffey. "What's the matter with him?" she asked Fox.

"He needs cheering, that's all," Fox said. "Go, lovely Rose, bring us that which cheers and doth inebriate."

"Now watch yourself," Rose said. "The Provincials was in here last night. They'll be back."

"We'll wu-watch it," Harry assured her. "Give us tu-two cu-Cokes to color it."

From beneath the counter, Rose took a large paper bag, added two Coke bottles to its contents, and handed the bag to Harry. Fox led the way into a small back room near the toilet. The bag was opened and a large bottle was placed on the table. The label read: Vin Canadien-Type-Sherry. Fox uncorked it and drank several swallows. "Now, Harry," he said. "Pour the Cokes in. And if any policeman pays a call we are enjoying the pause that refreshes. Right?"

"Right," Harry said. The Cokes were added and full glassfuls distributed. "Du-drink up," Harry said.

Coffey picked up his drink. It tasted sweetish but not

strong. He drank it down and poured another. Yes, what matter if he got drunk? Drink and these companions would be his future life. Down, down, down, all his boats burned. He had failed. Now he must do a far, far better thing . . .

"Count your blessings," Fox told him. "Think of Old Billy. You have your health and strength/'

He drank a third glass, not listening. Alone he would be, an ancient mariner who had looked for the bluebird. He would grow a feathery goatee, his voice would change, nasal and reedy. Old Ginger Coffey, fifty years a reader, a man in humble circs. He stared through the open doorway at the customers in the outer room. Humble circs, all of them. How many of them had dreamed, as he had once, of adventures, of circs not humble in the least? And what had happened to those dreams of theirs? Ah Dear God, what did you do when you could no longer dream? How did you reconcile yourself to those humble circs? "Suffering J," he said. "So this is what it's like."

"What what's like?" Fox said, pouring.

"The bottom. The dustbin. The end of the road."

"Bottom?" Fox shouted. "Why, you don't know what bottom is, Paddy. Now, take me. Three years ago you could find me up the street outside Windsor Station, panhandling dimes at two in the morning. Without an overcoat, mind you, and the weather at zero. That's bottom, Paddy. Bottom is a dime. A dime and a dime and a dime until you can buy your peace of mind in the large jug of Bright's Hermitage Port. Bottom is when your clothes are too far gone for anyone not to notice, and there's no chance of a job because they do notice. Bottom is that, Paddy. Not this. Why, this is regular employment,"

"Bottom's when you lose your wife," Coffey said thickly. "That's bottom. Bottom's when bloody liars make prom-

ises and bloody wife-stealers run off with your wife. Bottom's this bloody country, snow and ice, bloody hell on earth — '

"Yu-you leave Cu-Canada out of this," Harry said menacingly. "Gu-goddamn immigrants. Go on back where you came from."

"No, we have room for all sorts," Fox said. "We're the third largest country in the world, remember. We need our quota of malcontents."

"I'm sorry," Coffey said thickly. "Didn't mean to insult you fellows. Thinking about my wife. Not Canada. Leave Canada out of this."

"He doesn't want to talk about Canada," Fox said. "Leave Canada out. There you have the Canadian dilemma in a sentence. Nobody wants to talk about Canada, not even us Canadians. You're right, Paddy. Canada is a bore."

"No, I didn't mean that," Coffey said. "I'm just — listen, I've just lost my wife. And my little girl. Lost them/'

But Fox was not listening. "Poor old Canada," he wailed. "Not even a flag to call its own. Land of Eskimo and Mountie, land of beaver and moose —"

Coffey poured another glass and tried to stand up. Suffering J, what was in this wine, what's the matter? His legs felt like melting wax. How could he go home tonight to tell her that he would keep his word? How could he make his lonely exit in dignity, and him half drunk? Ah, dear God —

"Sit down," Fox shouted.

He turned towards the shouting voice, confused. "Must go," he said.

"Sit down!" Fox's cane caught him a smart blow behind his woozy knees and Coffey sat down. "I'm speaking to you, you bogman, you!" Fox shouted.

In trembling pain Coffey leaned across the table, inches

from his tormentor's stubbled face. Cruel cripple doom-sayer! He bunched his fist, raising it to strike that yelling mouth —

"Now don't hit me. Don't!" Fox shouted.

Dully, Coffey lowered his fist. At once Fox picked up the wine jug, swinging it in a menacing sweep. "Don't you dare walk out on me," he yelled. "I can't stand people walking out on me!"

White shoes, soundless on their rubber soles, moved up behind Fox. Rose Alma Briggs deftly caught the swinging jug. "That's enough of that," she said.

"Oh, Rose of all the world," Fox shouted. "Go, lovely Rose."

Rose moved behind him, reached under his armpits, set him tottering on his feet. "Out," she said. "That's an order. And this is the last time you use my place as a wine drop, any of you. Come on, Harry. Help him."

For an instant Fox's glazed eyes grew bright with rage. He gripped his cane, raising it like a club; held it suspended over the table for a moment, then lowered it. "No," he said. "No violence. No police. No doctors. Give me liberty or give me death, right, Rose? Yes, Rose. Yes, all. Good night, all."

Harry took his arm. Together they threaded their way among the tables of the outer room. The street door opened with a huff of wind, then banged shut as the drunkards met the winter snow, circling like lost birds on the pavement. Rose Alma turned to Coffey. "Poor man," she said. "He was in the asylum, you know. Dee-Tees." She bent and began to stack the dishes on the table. "You don't want to get mixed up with the likes of them. They're winos."

Coffey felt for a chair and sat down. His legs were trembling, the sweat on his brow was cold, his head felt swollen and heavy. "Not mixed up," he said drunkenly. "This

job — just a stopgap, you see. Tin a New Canadian, you see/'

Rose looked at him. "You married?"

"Yes."

"Well, why don't you go home to your wife then? It's late."

He put his hands up; felt his face fall into them. He rested his face in his hands. "My wife's leaving me," he said.

"No wonder," Rose said, "if you carry on like this."

"I didn't carry on. She did."

"Maybe she had a reason; did you ever think of that? Now, go on home."

He raised his face from his hands. Two Rose Almas stacked dishes, side by side. "A reason?" he said.

"Carrying on like this," said the double images of Rose. "You men. Do you know what women have to put up with? Now, go on home."

"Home?" he said. "I have no home," he told them.

"Where do you sleep then?"

"In my own bed. Not allowed in hers, you see."

"Come on now." The two Roses came close to him. "This way."

They raised him up. He tried to focus on the outer room. There were twins of all the customers. He rubbed his eyes, trying to make them come together, but they, like Rose, remained bifocal. "Come with me," Rose said. "Watch out for those girls over there. You don't want to get in trouble, now do you?"

"What girls?" he said. "Where girls?"

Rose took his arm, led him across the room, past the whores' table. "Have a girl," he said. "My own little girl. Going to lose her now."

"No, you won't," Rose said. "Now, come on. Bus stop's right across the street. You got a ticket?"

He nodded, not hearing, hearing only words.

"You'll feel better tomorrow/' her voice said. "Things will look better then/'

"No." He stopped, turned to her, his face pale and confused. Behind that large trembly dignity, behind that military fagade of mustache and middle age, Rose Alma saw his true face. Like a boy, she thought. Lost.

"Never better now," he mumbled. "Got to give them up . . . promised . . . word of honor . . . word — of — honor. My Paulie too. Growing up. Trouble with boys. I — made mess that too."

"Never mind," Rose Alma said. "They need you. Go home."

She opened the cafe door and suddenly he faced the street. A gust of wind struck a nearby rooftop, whirling a powdery gust down to blind him, covering his mustache and eyebrows with a fine white granulation. Aged white in one moment, old Coffey crossed the street, stumbling over a snowbank, headed for two street lamps, each labeled with a tin sign: BUS. BUS. He was going home, wake Veronica, renounce her and then, lonely, his barque cast adrift, he would leave again, going into the Arctic night, condemned forever to this land of ice and snow, this hell on earth, alone forever in his Y.M.C.A. room . . .

He tried to focus down the street, looking for a bus. No bus. Instead, a huge trailer truck came uphill, red warning lights aflicker, a groaning giant condemned to move at night. It drew near and, bifocally, two tiny drivers looked down on Coffey from their high-riding cabs.

The driver looked out, saw the man standing under the lamp, tiny green hat snow-matted, his mustache and eyebrows white, peering up, a lost drunk night-face. The great truck rode on.

A night wind crossed the frozen river, whirled along the empty ice-locked docks, rushed into the street. Coffey bent his head to the wind and, cold, confused, began to feel a natural urge which would not wait. The street was quiet. Only in the Five-Minute Lunch was there light. Still trying to focus, he peered at the buildings on his side, looking for a lane. There was no lane. But there was a large darkened doorway, some office building entrance, he thought, and there, unable to wait any longer, he stepped into the shadows.

A police prowl car turned the corner from the railroad goods depot behind the station, its tires noiseless in the thick night snow. In the front seat, two uniformed constables looked over at Rose's place, then swept their searchlight beam along the front of the hotel opposite. The constable who was not driving rolled down the window and stopped the searchlight glare on what lie saw. In the main doorway, legs apart, head bent in humble concentration, a man.

"Tu vois ga?" the constable said to his colleague.

"Calvaire!" the driver said, revving his engine.

Coffey, fumbling to adjust his dress, heard the engine sound. Still blinded by the harsh eye which had picked him out, he did not see the constable but felt a hand touch his elbow.

"Viens id, toi" the constable said.

"I— what?"

The constable did not reply, but led him towards the waiting prowl car. The other constable sat quiet at the wheel.

"What do you think you're doing?" the first constable asked.

Coffey told him. "Just waiting for the bus, waiting a long time, you see, so I had a call of nature. I mean, there was nobody —"

"You hadmit the oohfense?" the second constable said in a strong French-Canadian accent.

"Well now, look here —"

"Where do you work?"

"The Tribune."

Constable One looked at Constable Two. This was a matter for caution. Police and press relations. "What do you do there, sir?" said Constable One.

"Proofreader. Galley slave."

"C'quil dit?" the second constable asked the first.

"Zero" said the first.

"He's been drinkin' the wine," the second constable said, sniffing Coffey.

"Well, I was with some friends — Look here, officer — Ah now, for the love of God, man, be fair. I'm not drunk."

"Get in the car."

"Ah now, we don't have to do that, we can settle this, can't we?"

The first constable seized Coffey's left wrist and jerked it up against his back, bending Coffey double. In that way he was led towards the car. "Get in!"

So he got in and the first policeman got in the back beside him. The car started its engine, the police radio crackled and the driver made a report to radio control as they drove through the deserted streets. The report was in French, so Coffey did not understand it.

At the police station they made him wait. He sat on a bench, staring at a room full of two-headed policemen. Veronica must not know. Paulie must not know. Must get out of this. Just a fine or a warning, probably. Now see here, Sergeant . . . Reason with them. Och, now, listen to me sergeant, married man, little girl and wife, one over the eight, no harm meant, hmm?

But still . . . there were so many tabloid weeklies in this cursed city. Suppose it were reported in one of them. All full of rape they were, and other sexual misdemeanors . . .

He exhaled, feathering up the ends of his large mustache. IMMIGRANT CHARGED WITH DISORDERLY CONDUCT. A nice thing for Paulie to see. Nice thing indeed. Flute! You're not going to let that happen, are you? Not likely. He'd give a false name, that's what he would do. False name, that was the ticket. With any luck he'd get a fine and be home by morning. Right, then!

The double images had diminished to single ones by the time he was called up to the sergeant's desk. "Name and address?" said the sergeant.

"Gerald MacGregor," Coffey said, and gave the address of Madame Beaulieu's duplex.

The desk sergeant started a long conversation in French with the radio car officers. They reached an agreement. "Okay," the sergeant said to them. He turned to Coffey. "We're not booking you on a vag," he said. "We're going to book you for indecent exposure. That's the charge."

"Wait a minute, sergeant," Coffey said. "Couldn't we settle this here — it was all an accident. A mistake."

"Now, put all what's in your pockets in this bag," the sergeant interrupted.

"Ah now, wait sergeant —"

"And take your tie off."

"Ah, sergeant, ah now, listen, I'm an immigrant here, I didn't know it was any crime —"

"And give me your belt."

"Sergeant, did you hear me? Listen — I'm a married man with a little girl. Ah God, you've no right to enter a thing like that in the record/'

"Prends-lui" the sergeant said to the jailer. "Numero Six."

The jailer took him in the back and led him down a flight of stairs. A detective was coming up. They stopped to let him pass. The detective, a fat young man with a crew cut and a mustache almost as large as Coffey's, stopped and said: "Le gars, cquil a fait, lui?"

The jailer laughed. "A fait pisser juste dans la grande porte du Royal Family Hotel"

"Oh-hoh!" the detective said, grinning at Coffey. "What's de matter? You don' like the English, eh? Or the Royal Family? Or maybe you just don* like the hotel?"

"What — what do you mean?" Coffey said. "What does he mean?" he asked the jailer.

"Move your ass," the jailer said. He pushed Coffey towards the last flight of steps, led him along a corridor and unlocked the door of a cell. There were two men sleeping inside. Coffey, undignified, holding up his trousers with both hands, made one last appeal to justice. "Listen to me," he said. "Please, will you let me speak to the sergeant again?"

"Don' piss on de other boys in here," the jailer said, shoving him in. "Dey won' like it."

The cell door shut. The lock turned. The jailer went back upstairs. Sick, Coffey let his trousers sag as he groped for and found a bench. He sat down, hearing the harsh cough of his cellmate. The cell was clean but stank of beer or wine or something. Or, was it he who . . . ? He did not know. One floor above him he heard the policemen walking about, talking, laughing at an occasional sally or bit of horseplay. Up there, just one flight of stairs, men were free. While down here — Oh God! Childish memories of being shut in a closet, of calling out to playmates who had run away, of beating on the door, unan-

swered: these swam in on him now, making it impossible to say Chin up, Steady as she goes, or any of the rest of it. Ever since he could remember he had read of prison sentences in secret dread. Jail. Yes, they could send him to jail. O God, he prayed. . . .

O Who? What did God care, if there were a God? Or was it God who had pulled the rug out, once and for all, who had now decided to show him once and for all that he had been a lunatic to have hopes, that his ship would never come in, that he had lost his wife and child forever?

Steady. Steady as she goes, he told himself. Don't panic. Steady on there.

But it was no good. Upstairs, the policemen broke out another round of laughter. He put his face in his hands, his lower teeth biting into the hair on his upper lip. Ah no, no, there was no sense blaming a God he could not believe in, there was no sense blaming anyone. Vera was right. He was to blame. If he had been content with his lot at home, he would never have come out to this cursed country. If he had never come out here, he would not have lost Veronica to Grosvenor; Paulie would not be running around with young hoodlums older than she. If he had not come out here, he would not be a proofreader with no hope of advancement, he would not be in jail tonight. Why hadn't he gone straight home? Whose fault was it he was drunk? His fault.

Yes, his fault. What a bloody fool he had been giving that wrong name and address. They had put his belongings in a bag but if they looked in his wallet they would crucify him. He should call out now, go upstairs, apologize, get a lawyer, tell them his real name . . .

He went quickly to the cell door and peered out of the small Judas window at the corridor. The window was thick-glassed, with a wire netting grille. He could see no one. He stepped back, trying to peer sideways down the

corridor and, as he did, he saw his own face, angled in the reflection from the glass pane. He stared at that sad impostor, at that hateful, stupid man. Yes, look at you, would you? You that promised you would drop out of sight. You that would do a far, far better thing, look at youl What sort of man would call out now, what sort of man would disgrace Veronica and Paulie because he was afraid of being locked up?

He stepped back into the darkness of the cell again. He could not bear to look at that hateful, stupid man. He was not that man. He was Ginger Coffey who had given a false name to protect the innocent and now must take his punishment.

He sat down, his trousers loose around his hips. It was dark. He was afraid.

But oh! He knew something now, something he had not known before. A man's life was nobody's fault but his own. Not God's, not Vera's, not even Canada's. His own fault. Mea culpa.

Thirteen Shortly after dawn someone in a nearby cell began to beat on the door and call out in French. This woke everyone up. The jailer came downstairs, unlocked the cell and led the prisoner out. One of Coff ey's cellmates wiped his nose on his sleeve and said: "They never learn/*

"What d you mean?"

"They'll take him up in the back room now and tire him a bit."

"Oh?" Coffey went to the cell door and listened. He could hear no sound upstairs. He heard his third cellmate say: "You bother them, they tire you, that's right. Just keep quiet is the best."

Several minutes later the jailer brought back the man who had been shouting. The man held both hands over his stomach and his face was pale. After he had been locked in again, he could be heard retching. Coffey's cellmates exchanged nods. One said: "In Bordeaux they beat the shit out of you whether you bother them or not. Minute you get in, they fix you."

"Where's Bordeaux?" Coffey asked.

"Provincial jail. What are you up for, Jack?"

"Ah — I was taking a leak in the open last night and the police found me."

"Avag,eh?"

"A vag?" The word was familiar. "No, it wasn't that they called it. Indecent exposure, it was."

His cellmates exchanged glances. One of them coughed. "Well/* he said. 'Td rather it was you, not me/'

At eight o'clock a bell rang. A jailer came down to the cells, called a roll from a typewritten list and ordered the prisoners to line up at their cell doors. Several other policemen appeared. The prisoners were marched upstairs and CofFey, with three other men, was put in a waiting room. There was a policeman in the room. One of the prisoners begged a light.

"NO TALKING!" shouted the policeman.

At eight thirty-one, Coffey and three others were taken to the back door of the police station. A van was backed into the alley, its engine running. A policeman helped them up, a second policeman handed the driver a list and the doors of tfye Black Maria were locked. There were already two prisoners in the van and it stopped at three police stations in the next half hour. By the time it reached a courthouse somewhere in the harbor area, the van was crowded with men and smelled of alcohol and sweat. They were disembarked in a yard and, as they waited to be marched away, Coffey saw a newspaper kiosk in the street outside, its walls plastered with tabloid headlines. One of them read:

CADI SENTENCES "FOUL EXPOSER" MERCY PLEA REJECTED

Suffering J! Better they sentence him to jail than Paulie ever read the like of that. This was his fault. Everything was his fault. He must pay for it himself.

"Right," said a warder. "MARCH!"

One of the prisoners, an old man, said: "Is there a toilet inside? I need to go to the toilet/'

The warder turned and bellowed as though struck: "NO TALKING IN THE CORRIDORS."

They were marched downstairs and locked up.

Above the judge there was a large crucifix. The Christ figure seemed to recline, head to one side, as though trying to catch the half-audible mumble of the clerk of the court.

"Criminal Code . . . Statute . . . Section . . . Said Gerald MacGregor . . . night of ... premises . . . did indecently expose himself — as witness . . ."

A lawyer, arriving late, entered the courtroom and hurried up the aisle, shaking hands with his colleagues. The reporters on the press bench were reading a newspaper called Le Devoir: they did not appear to have paid attention to the charge. The judge, a florid man who might have been mistaken for a bookmaker, was having trouble with his Parker pen. He signaled a court functionary, who went through the door leading to the judge's chambers. A detective-sergeant came in and stood beneath the judge, waiting. The clerk of the court finished his mumble and sat down. The judge unscrewed his Parker pen, and noticed the waiting detective-sergeant. The sergeant stepped forward and whispered. The judge looked at Cof-fey.

"Swear the accused," he said.

Coffey was sworn in. The judge said: "Now — is your name Gerald MacGregor?"

CoflFey looked desperately at the crucifix over the judge's bench. The Christ figure lent an ear: waiting.

"I warn you," the judge said. "No one by the name of MacGregor lives at the address you have given. Do you still say that is your name?"

In terror, Coffey looked at the detective-sergeant. Vera and Paulie? —must protect . . . "Yes, Your Honor," he said.

"All right/' The judge nodded to the sergeant. "Bring your witness in."

The sergeant signaled to a court attendant and the court attendant went outside. In her best blue coat, her eyes downcast, Veronica was escorted to the bench. She was sworn in. Her eyes met Coffey's, then flittered towards the press bench. The reporters were taking notes now. She gave her name and address.

"Is this man your husband?"

"Yes."

"What is his given name?"

"James Francis Coffey."

"You may stand down. Clerk, read the charge again in the name of James Francis Coffey."

She went to a front seat and sat down. She looked up at him and her fingers fluttered in a tiny, surreptitious greeting. She was afraid.

"Now, Coffey," the judge said. "Why did you give a false name?"

"I — ah — I didn't want my wife and daughter mixed up in this, you see."

"I do not see," the judge said. "You have heard the charge. Have you any idea of the gravity of this charge?"

"Well, no, Your Honor. You see — I mean, I wanted to avoid — I mean, it wasn't their fault. I didn't want them to be worried."

"This charge," the judge said, "carries a maximum penalty of seven years in prison/'

Coffey looked at Veronica. She seemed about to keel over. Seven years.

"Well, Coffey? What do you have to say for yourself?"

"I — I'm an immigrant here, Your Honor, and I've not

done very well getting settled. My wife . . ." He stopped and looked at Veronica, who lowered her head, not answering his look. "My wife and I had agreed to separate unless I did better. I'd promised her that unless I got a certain promotion, I'd let her go back to — I mean, leave me. And I promised she could take my daughter as well. So last night, I didn't get the promotion, and so . . ."

He could not go on. He stood, looking down at her, looking at the white nape of her neck beneath the hairline of her new short haircut. The judge said: "What's all this got to do with perjuring yourself ?"

"Well, I'd lost them anyway, Your Honor. I didn't want them to suffer any more for what I'd done. So I thought of a false name . . ."

The judge looked at the sergeant. "Is the prisoner represented by counsel?"

"A pas demande" the sergeant said.

"This case is being tried in English/' the judge said, testily.

"Sorry, sir. He didn't ask for a lawyer/'

The judge sighed. He put both halves of his Parker pen together, screwed them tight, then laid the pen down. "How do you plead?" he said to Coffey. "Guilty or not guilty?"

"Not guilty, Your Honor."

"Very well. Call the first witness."

Constable Armand Bissonette, Radio Mobile Unit, Station Number 10, took the stand. Following the witness's testimony, he was cross-examined by Judge Am6dee Mon-ceau.

His HONOR: "Was there anyone else in the street at the

time?" WITNESS: "Not so far as we could see, sir."

His HONOR: "Then no one witnessed the act except the

police?" WITNESS: "Maybe there were people inside the hotel lobby

who saw it."

His HONOR: "Did you actually see any people?" WITNESS: "No, sir."

His HONOR: "And the doorway was dark?" WITNESS: "Yes, but there were lights in the lobby, inside

the door."

His HONOR: "Were those lights visible from the doorway?" WITNESS: "Yes, if he had looked in, he would have seen

that it was a hotel lobby. But he was on the wine, sir.

He could hardly see straight." His HONOR : "He was intoxicated?" WITNESS: "He's a wino, sir. I smelled the wine off him." His HONOR: (To accused) "What did you have to drink?" ACCUSED: "Your Honor, I had some glasses of wine. It was

a sort of a mixture of sherry and Coca-Cola. I didn't intend to get drunk." His HONOR: "You're Irish, by the sound of you. Is that an

Irish recipe?"

[LAUGHTER] His HONOR: "If that didn't make you drunk, it should have

made you ill. Were you ill?" ACCUSED: "Yes, Your Honor. I felt a bit dizzy. And I had

been waiting a long time for the bus." His HONOR: "How long?" ACCUSED: "More than twenty minutes, sir. Maybe half an

hour." His HONOR: "Half an hour? Well, I can see you're not a

native of this city. Half an hour is not a long time here." [LAUGHTER]

Coffey looked at them: the judge grinning at his witticism, the lawyers looking up to laugh with the bench, the

spectators lolling back in their seats like people enjoying a joke in church. Seven years in prison and yet they laughed. But why not? What was he to all these people except a funny man with a brogue? Not a person; an occasion of laughter. His whole life, back to those days when he ran past the iron railings of Stephen's Green, late for school, back through the university years, the Army years, the years at Kylemore and Coomb-Na-Baun, through courtship, marriage, fatherhood, his parents' death, his hopes, his humiliations — it was just a joke. All he was this morning, facing prison and ruin, was an excuse for courtroom sallies. So what did it matter, his life in this world, when this was what the world was like? Unsurely but surely he came to that. His hopes, his ambitions, his dreams: what were they but shams? Only one face in that courtroom suffered with him, knew him as more than a joke, was one with him on this awful morning. One face, which fifteen years ago in Saint Pat's in Dalkey had turned from the priest to look at him and say "I do."

The judge rapped on his desk. The laughter stopped.

His Honor, Judge Amedee Monceau, addressed the prosecution. His Honor stated that under the circumstances, the lateness of the hour, the absence of proven intoxication, the lack of witnesses to the action, the fact that there was no known previous criminal record, there was some question in His Honor's mind as to why the police had preferred the more serious charge. A charge of vagrancy might, His Honor suggested, have been more appropriate in this instance.

DETECTIVE-SERGEANT TAILLEFER: "Your Honor, this act was committed in the doorway of one of the biggest hotels in the city."

His HONOR: "Yes, but you have not proved that there were any witnesses."

DETECTIVE-SERGEANT TAILLEFER: "Well, the police took such speedy action, sir, that nobody was disturbed."

His HONOR: "Sergeant, if the police department is ever in need of a public relations officer, I'll be very happy to recommend you. But if there are to be any further compliments to the police department this morning, will you please allow them to come from me?" [LAUGHTER]

Down there in the courtroom the spectators looked up, enjoying the discomfiture of the police sergeant. No one looked at him, the central figure in this drama. No one, not even she. For she sat, her head bent; humiliated. Was she humiliated because this laughter was a criticism of her, a mockery of her taste in marrying a man who had indecently exposed himself to the world's ridicule, whose sufferings merited the world's attention only as a subject for farce? Likely that was it, he thought. For didn't she want shut of him too, wasn't she here only because the police had found his true address and ordered her presence in this court? Oh, Vera, Vera, look at me, would you . . . ?

But she did not look at him. She did not care for him any more than the rest of them. Nobody cared for him.

His HONOR: "Accused, stand up. Have you anything to say in your defense?"

ACCUSED: "I didn't know it was a hotel, Your Honor. I thought it was an office building. It was an accident."

His HONOR: "I see. And in your country is it common practice to relieve oneself in office doorways? Are you asking me to believe the Irish are uncivilized?"

ACCUSED: "No, Your Honor."

His HONOR: "I see. Well, let me inform you, Coffey, your actions last night constitute a serious crime in this Province. Now, as I understand it, there were certain extenuating circumstances. It was late at night and you were at the mercy of the Montreal Transportation Commis-

99

sion —

[LAUGHTER]

His HONOR: "And certainly, having imbibed the concoction which you described to this court there is every reason that your system should seek to expel it as soon as possible, in one way or another/' [LAUGHTER]

His HONOR: "However, the fact remains that your action in a public — a very public — place might have caused considerable shock and outrage to innocent bystanders. In the event of your action being committed deliberately to shock and outrage such bystanders, the charge laid against you by the police would seem justified. And, as I have already told you, the maximum sentence for that offense is seven years in prison/'

Veronica raised her head. There were tears in her eyes and her face was terribly pale. She stared at him as though only she and he were in the room. He looked at her; his legs no longer trembled. He saw it in her eyes: it was not shame of him, it was fear for him. He looked up at the judge, no longer afraid.

His HONOR: "Now, Coffey, in the absence of defending counsel, this Court considers you to have thrown yourself upon its mercy. And despite the charge laid against you by these officers, I am inclined to believe that in view of the mitigating circumstances there was no criminal intent on your part. So I am giving you the benefit

of the doubt. I hereby sentence you to six months in prison . . ."

His eyes left the judge's face; went to her below him. Something had happened. A court usher and a spectator were bending over her. Fainted? The court usher was helping her from her seat. Watching, Coffey barely heard the judge's next phrase.

". . . However, in this case, sentence will be suspended, in view of the fact that you have no previous conviction and are an immigrant with a wife and child to support. I am dealing with you leniently, Coffey., because I am sorry for your family. To be alone in a new country, with their breadwinner in jail, seems to me a fate which your wife and child do not deserve. But let me warn you that if for any reason you again find yourself before this court, you will, I assure you, have every cause to regret it."

They had taken her outside. He was all alone now. He stared at the judge.

His HONOR: "In conclusion, let me remind the police officers concerned that in cases of this kind all available evidence should be weighed before a charge is preferred. It is because of carelessness in determining the charges against defendants that this court has been obliged, time after time, to render verdicts against the prosecution. That is all, gentlemen/'

A warder tapped him on the shoulder. He was led back to the detention room. "My wife . . . ?"

One of the warders stepped on Coffe/s toes. It hurt. "Sorry," the warder said. "What's that you said?"

"My wife, is she . . . ?"

The detective-sergeant, smiling, stepped on Coffey's toes. "Twenty years on the Force," he said. "And I never saw a judge give a guy a break like you got. Luck of the Irish, it must be, eh, Irishman?"

The sergeant poked him in the ribs. It was not a friendly poke. The warder made him sign for his belongings. Then, they let him go.

The corridor outside was crowded with people. Witnesses, waiting their turn in court, lawyers in corner conference with clients and colleagues, policemen walking up and down with the proprietary air of museum guides. He ran past them all, ranging this way and that, finally emerging into a large hall where two court ushers sat on a stone bench near the main door. He went to them.

"Excuse me," he said, newly afraid, for they were policemen. He expected them to shout "NO TALKING." But instead, they were the police he had always known.

"Yes, sir?"

"Did you see a woman? I mean a woman fainted in the court there, did she go out this way?"

"In a blue coat, right?" the usher said. "Yes, we put her in a taxi a minute ago."

"I'm her husband," he said. "Do you know the address she went to?"

They thought this over. One said: "A number on Notre Dame Street, I think."

He thanked them and turned towards the doorway. He felt weak, as though he had risen from a month in bed. Notre Dame Street was Grosvenor's office. Ah, God, it was plain as the nose on your face. She had fainted: she had

not even waited to hear the whole thing. She had not waited for him but had gone off to her lover. Ginger's in jail. Gerry, we're free.

Yes, he had been wrong to hope. He was right the first time. She did not care about him. Nobody cared.

Through the main doorway, under the Latinate scrolls to justice and truth, he moved, his step that of an old, old man. He was a wanderer who had sought the bluebird, who had seen all, who knew now that this was what the world was like. He stood at the top of the wide fall of steps which went down to the streets of the city, that city of which he had hoped so much, which had laughed at his hopes, which had turned him out. He looked up at the sky. Gray clouds ballooned down like the dirty underside of a great circus tent. Yet, oh! Never since he had lain in a field as a small boy had the heavens seemed so soaring, so illimitable. And in that moment his heart filled with an unpredictable joy. He was free. The night that had passed, the cells below stairs, the shouting warders, the terrifying laughter of the spectators in court; it had happened and yet it had not. It was a nightmare washed into nothingness by the simple and glorious fact of freedom. The city, its roofs and cornices crusted with snow, its rushing inhabitants muffled in furs, seemed a busy, magical place, a joy to be abroad in. For one liberating moment he became a child again; lost himself as a child can, letting himself go into the morning, a drop of water joining an ocean, mystically becoming one.

He forgot Ginger Coffey and Ginger's life. No longer was he a man running uphill against hope, his shins kicked, his luck running out. He was no one: he was eyes staring at the sky. He was the sky.

A passer-by bumped against him; went down the wide steps. The moment detached itself, leaving him weak and wondering. That was happiness. Would it ever come

again? Wishing would not bring it back, nor ambitions, nor sacrifice, nor love. Why was it that true joy, this momentary release, could come even in his hour of loss and failure? It could not be wished for: it came unawares. It came more often in childhood, but it might come again and again, even at the end of a life.

Slowly, he descended the courthouse steps. Yes, a momentary happiness might come to him again. But was that all he could hope for now — a few mystical moments spaced out over a lifetime? Yes, it might be all.

Wish — if I could wish, what would I wish for now?

But he thought of her. He thought of his promise to go away. He must not wish. He must go. Yes, he must go.

Fourteen He let himself in, cautiously. There was always the chance that Veronica might have come back. But when he opened the hall closet, her coat was not there. As Paulie was at school, there was no further need for him to be quiet. He went into the bedroom and began to pack a suitcase. He took shirts from the dresser drawer, avoiding the man in the mirror. He no longer felt any interest in that man. He no longer felt any interest in Ginger Coffey. He felt like someone else.

Suddenly, down the hall, the shower went on. Saturday! Of course. Paulie was at home. He wanted to hide. He did not want questions; did not want to be forced to explain why he must go. Hurriedly, he tried to finish the clumsy job of stuffing his clothes into the suitcase. But the suitcase slid off the bed with a thump. The shower stopped. He heard Paulie's footsteps in the corridor.

"Mummy, is that you? . . . Mummy? . . . Who's that?" Her voice changed from inquiry to doubt, to fear, and of course it was not fair to frighten her by letting her think he was a thief or something. He opened the door and there was Paulie in her bathrobe, her face and neck still dewed with shower steam. "Oh, it's you, Daddy," she said. "Where were you?"

"Inhere."

"No, I mean where were you? We were nearly demented. And then, this morning, when that policeman came in the car for Mummy, I was sure you were in a hospital or even killed. Now what happened?"

"I was in jail," he said.

"Oh, you're joking!" But as she said it, she ran to him and hugged him. "I was worried, Daddy."

"Were you, Pet?" He was surprised. He took her face in his hands and raised it up. Yes, she took after him: there was something of him in her reddish hair, her worried eyes. She was his child and she had worried for him. If he asked her to come away with him now, she might come. . . .

But where? And why? His hand stroked the back of her head. She loved him: it was more than he had a right to expect. Let her be.

"My hair's just set," she said. "Please don't mess it, Daddy."

He released her. He must finish his packing, without her knowing. "What about getting me some coffee?" he said.

"Okay, Daddy. But what is all this about jail?"

"It's a long story, Apple. I'll tell you some other time/'

"Tell me now."

"Some other time," he said.

She went to the kitchen. He shut the bedroom door and picked the bag off the floor, repacking it. She had worried for him: she loved him. That moved him more than he thought he could be moved again. Still, he had made a promise. He must go. He shut the suitcase and, so that she would not see it, he went to the hall closet and hid it. After the coffee, he would slip away . . .

But the hall door opened as he closed the closet. Veronica. Slowly, he turned to face her. It was like those long

ago days when, having failed the examination, you must face the anger, the reproach.

"Is it you?" she said.

"Yes."

"But you're supposed to be in jail?"

"It was a suspended sentence."

"Oh."

He looked at her. She looked at him. Caught, like strangers who eye each other on a train, they pretended the glance was accidental.

"Well . . ." he said. He opened the closet and took out his car coat.

"Are you going out?"

He put on his coat and reached in again for his little green hat. "I'm going away. They're not going to make me a reporter, now or ever. So you can get the divorce. I'll be in touch with you."

He stood for a moment, facing the closet; feeling watched; not wanting to meet the eyes that watched him.

"What about Paulie? Does Paulie know?"

"No," he said.

"Well, don't you think you should tell her?"

"You tell her." He turned, little green hat in one hand, suitcase in the other. "Would you open the door for me, Vera?"

Their eyes met. One person in the whole world who had known him; one person who knew him as more than a joke. A person who, fifteen years ago in Saint Pat's in Dai-key, had knelt beside him at the altar and promised . . .

"Before you go," she said. "There's one thing I want to explain. I didn't run away this morning."

He put down his suitcase. He would have to open the door himself. She wasn't going to help him.

"Listen, Ginger. When I heard the judge say 'Six

months,' I keeled over. Then, when they took me out, I thought the best thing to do would be to go to Gerry's office and try to get a lawyer so that you could appeal."

He opened the door and picked up his suitcase.

"You don't believe me, is that it?"

"It doesn't matter," he said. It did not matter.

"Gerry refused to help you," she said. "That's why I came back here."

"Look, Vera, I have to go now."

"But, just a second, will you?" Her voice was urgent and strained. "I want to tell you what Gerry said to me. He said it was the best thing that could have happened. He said it would make the divorce easier. That's all he cared about."

"Well, it doesn't matter, does it?" he said. "It's former history."

She bent her head, and suddenly rubbed at her eyes with her knuckles, leaving a smudge of mascara on the bridge of her nose. "Dammit," she said. "I'm sorry. Don't you see, I'm sorry?"

Sorry? What was she sorry about? What did "sorry" cure? She'd told him that once. Now, he knew what she meant. He stood, suitcase in hand, at the open doorway. He must go.

"Wait," she said. "There's something else too. Only I can't tell it, with you standing there like some door-to-door salesman. Come into our room a minute. I don't want Paulie to hear."

Unwillingly, he put down his suitcase and followed her back to the bedroom. What use was there in all this? Why must she make it so hard?

She shut the bedroom door. "Now, listen," she said. "I never slept with Gerry. On my word of honor. I wouldn't do it until you and I were legally separated."

He nodded. Get it over with.

"You should have seen Gerry just now/' she said. "He behaved like a total stranger. How could anyone love a person who'd let someone go to jail and be glad of it? He doesn't love me, either, he just wants me. Whereas you — you stood up in the courtroom this morning and gave a false name for my sake and for Paulie's —"

She stopped. She seemed to be waiting for him to tell her something.

"All right then," she said. "If that's the way of it, won't you even kiss me good-by?"

Kiss this stranger? Unwillingly, he put his arms around her. She was shaking. He looked down at the nape of her neck, bared by her new hairdo. It was unfamiliar, yet familiar. Ah GodI Had he been wrong in that, as well? For, now that he held her, she was no stranger at all, but Veronica, the woman he had slept with how many thousand nights. Veronica: older and heavier than the girl he had married, her breasts a little too big, her eyes edged with small white lines, her hand, now touching his cheek, roughened by years over sinks and washtubs. Veronica, No stranger: not desirable.

"Ginger," she said. "You still love me, don't you? You said you did."

Love her? This body familiar as his own . . . Desire her? This woman growing old . . .

"Even if you don't love me," she said. "There's Paulie. That child wept half the night, worrying about you. You can't walk out on her now."

Didn't you walk out on Paulie? he thought. But what was the use in blaming her? Blame was his. "Look," he said. "You'd be better off, you and Paulie . . ."

He did not go on. Someone else was saying all this. Not Ginger Coffey. Someone who had stopped looking for the good in the bad; who had stopped running uphill in hopes; someone who knew the truth. He did not love her:

he could no longer love. He did not want to watch her cry. She was getting old: she was just another illusion he no longer had.

He began to button his overcoat.

"No, we wouldn't," she was saying. "Because it wasn't only your fault, it was mine. When I saw Gerry just now — I mean, saw the real Gerry — I knew it was my fault. What I mean is, I'd like to start again. Listen, we could start again if you wanted to? You could get that job as Mr. Brott's Personal Assistant, if you went and asked for it."

He looked down at her. Yes, that was true. He might get that job. He could become, now and forevermore, amen, the glorified secretary she had always thought he was. What did it matter? What was so terrible about that? Didn't most men try and fail, weren't most men losers? Didn't damn nearly everyone have to face up someday to the fact that their ship would never come in?

He had tried. He had not won. He would die in humble circs.

"I'm sure he'd give you the job," she said. "Honestly, Ginger, I'm sure of it."

He smiled. Wasn't that familiar, somehow?

"Don't laugh," she said. "You'll see!"

"I'm not laughing," he told her.

"Why, listen," she said. "In a year or two we'll have forgotten this ever happened."

He did not feel like someone else now. She did.

"And if you do stay," she said. "I'd never ask you to go home again. You were right. Home is here, we're far better off here. Why, in a month or two, with my job and your job, we'd be sitting pretty. You were right. This was only a crush, I had. Why, I'll bet you —"

"A brand-new frock, Vera?"

She stopped. She looked at him, her eyes blinding with tears. "Oh, Ginger," she said. "I sound like you."

"I know you do." He went to her, put his arm around her and opened the bedroom door.

"Your coffee's ready," Paulie called from the kitchen. "And do you want an egg, Daddy?"

Beside him, Vera waited his answer.

"HI have two eggs," he said.

"Good. I'll put them on," Paulie said.

"No, Til do it," Vera said. Quickly, she went out of the room and down the hall.

He pushed the bedroom door, let it drift shut. He unbuttoned his overcoat. In the dresser mirror, the man began to cry. Detached, he watched the tears run down that sad impostor's face, gather on the edges of that large mustache. Why was that man boohooing? Because he no longer lusted for his wife? Because he wasn't able to leave her? Ah, you idjit, you. Don't you know that love isn't just going to bed? Love isn't an act, it's a whole life. It's staying with her now because she needs you; it's knowing you and she will still care about each other when sex and daydreams, fights and futures — when all that's on the shelf and done with. Love — why, I'll tell you what love is: it's you at seventy-five and her at seventy-one, each of you listening for the other's step in the next room, each afraid that a sudden silence, a sudden cry, could mean a lifetime's talk is over.

He had tried: he had not won. But oh! what did it matter? He would die in humble circs: it did not matter. There would be no victory for Ginger Coffey, no victory big or little, for there, on the courthouse steps, he had learned the truth. Life was the victory, wasn't it? Going on was the victory. For better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health . . . till . . .

He heard her step outside. He went to join her.