The Luck Of Ginger Coffey (25 page)

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-

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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."