Plainsong

by Kent Haruf

  They went out of the bedroom. And while the others waited in the dining room the girl stepped into the bathroom. Another small room, it had a sink and toilet and a freestanding enameled tub with a red hose and showerhead coiled under the faucet at one end. On the shelves above the sink were various half-used jars of liniment and salve and Cornhuskers handbalm, and tubes of back-rub and sore-muscle ointment, and there was also tooth powder and denture adhesive and shaving equipment, and hanging over one of the drying rods next to the bathtub, together with two old towels, was a single fresh new pink towel that still had the store tag stapled to it. The girl came back out of the room. Should I get my suitcase now? she said.

  I think that would be a good idea, Maggie Jones said.

  You need any assistance? said Raymond.

  No thank you. I think I can do it, the girl said, then went out through the kitchen to the car.

  When she had gone Harold said, She ain’t very big, is she. Why, she’s just a little thing. She don’t even show the baby any that I can see.

  Not much yet, Maggie said. Some of her clothes are beginning to get tight. You’ll notice it more when she takes her coat off.

  Is she scared of us? Raymond said. She don’t say much.

  What do you think? Maggie Jones said.

  Raymond looked out the window toward the car where the girl stood at the trunk gathering her belongings. She don’t have to be, he said. We wouldn’t hurt her. We wouldn’t do her a harm for anything in this world.

  I know that, Maggie said. But she doesn’t know it yet. You’ll have to give her time.

  The girl returned to the house carrying a single cardboard suitcase and dragging a plastic trash bag. These she took into the bedroom. They could hear her in the room, moving about on the wood floor, temporarily arranging things, then she came back out.

  I’m afraid this is a hard trial for you, Raymond said to the girl. He was not looking at her, but peering past her into some distance of his own. But we want to hope . . . What I want to say is, Harold and me, we want to think that you might come to feel a little at home out here. In time, I mean. Not right away, I don’t guess.

  She looked at him, then at his brother. Thank you, she said. Thank you for letting me stay here with you.

  Well, you’re welcome, Raymond said. You sure are.

  They stood awkwardly inspecting the floor.

  Very well then, Maggie said. I believe I’ve done my part. So I think I’ll just go home and let you three souls get acquainted.

  The girl looked startled. On the McPheron brothers’ faces there was the look of panic. Do you have to leave already? the girl said.

  I think so, Maggie said. I think I better. It’s time.

  We thought you might stay to supper, Harold said. Wouldn’t you care to do that?

  Another time, she said. I’ll be back.

  She went outside and the McPheron brothers and the girl followed her out and stood on the little screened porch in the wind, watching until she had driven away in the car. Then they turned and came back inside and stood looking at one another from across the bare wooden table in the kitchen.

  Well, Harold said. I reckon—

  The house was quiet. From outside came the faint sound of birdsong, coming up from the red cedar trees next to the garage, and there was the rising and falling noise of the wind.

  —I reckon Raymond and me better go out and feed before it gets full dark, he said. Then we’ll come back in. We’ll have to see about getting some supper.

  The girl looked at him.

  It won’t take us long, he said.

  What is it you’re feeding?

  Cattle.

  Oh.

  Mother cows and heifers, Raymond said.

  Oh.

  The McPheron brothers and the girl stood looking at one another.

  I guess I can get unpacked, the girl said.

  McPherons.

  When supper was finished they sat on in the dining room in the quiet. The table had been cleared already and the dishes washed and rinsed and left to dry. Raymond sat at one end of the table bent over the Holt Mercury newspaper spread out before him, reading, licking his finger when he turned the pages, his wire glasses low down on his nose. While he read he rolled a flat toothpick back and forth in his mouth without once touching it. Harold sat at the other end of the table. He was turned out from it, his knees spread open, and he was rubbing Black Bear Mountain mink oil into the thick leather of a work boot. Beside his chair the other boot was flopped over empty on the patterned and cracked linoleum.

  Outside the house the wind had risen higher than it had been in the afternoon. They could hear it crying around the house corners, heaving and whining in the bare trees. The dry snow was lifted by the wind and blown past the windows and it carried in sudden gusts across the frozen yard under the farmlight that hung from a telephone pole out back. The snow swirled and sped in the bluish light. In the house it was quiet.

  Across the room the door was closed. She had gone into her bedroom after supper and they had not heard anything from her since. They didn’t know what to think of this. They wondered privately if all seventeen-year-old girls disappeared after eating supper.

  When he had both boots oiled to his requirements Harold stood up and set them out in the kitchen where they gleamed mutely against the wall. Then he came back and crossed to her door and stood listening with his head canted and his eyes staring. He knocked on the door.

  Victoria? he said.

  Yes.

  Everything all right in there?

  You can come in, she said.

  So he entered her room. It was hers already. She had made it so. It was female now, cleaner and tidier, with little things set out in place. For the first time in half a century someone had taken an interest in the room. The old cardboard boxes were pushed under the bed and the clothes in the closet had been shoved back farther into the dark. Against the wall the old mahogany chest of drawers, its oval mirror darkened and finely cracked at the edges, had been dusted and polished, and her belongings were now arranged on it, hair ribbons and comb and brush, lipstick and liner, hair clasps, a little cedar box of jewelry whose lid was closed by a tiny brass lock.

  She herself was sitting up in the bed in a square-necked winter nightgown with a sweater pulled over her shoulders, a schoolbook and a blue notepad propped up in her lap, while the lamp beside the bed cast yellow light onto her clear face and her shining dark hair.

  I just was wondering, he said. If you was warm enough in here.

  Yes, she said. It’s fine.

  They’re saying how it’s suppose to get kind of cold tonight.

  Is it?

  And this old house ain’t very warm.

  I’m fine, she said again. She watched him. He was standing just inside the door, his hands poked into his pockets, his weather-blasted red face shining in the lamplight.

  Anyhow, he said. He peered around. You think of something, you can let us know. We don’t know much about this sort of thing.

  Thank you, she said.

  He looked at her once more, quickly, as some shy country animal might, and closed the door.

  In the dining room Raymond sat at the table waiting, curious, the newspaper held up captured in his hands. She all right? he said.

  I guess so.

  She need more blankets?

  She never said she wanted any.

  Maybe we ought to get her some anyhow. In case.

  I don’t know. You about done with that paper?

  It’s going to be a goddamn cold night tonight.

  I told her that. She knows. Why don’t you let me have the front page. You’re done with that much.

  Raymond handed him the newspaper, and he took it and shook it out and began to read. After a while Raymond said, What was she doing in there? When you was inside her room.

  Nothing. Reading. Working over her schoolbooks.

  Was she in bed?

  Harold looked up at him. I don’t kno
w where else was she going to be.

  Raymond stared back at his brother. Then Harold began to read again. The wind blew and whistled outside. After a time Raymond spoke again. She didn’t eat very much supper, he said. I don’t think she did.

  Harold didn’t look up.

  I reckon maybe she just don’t like steak.

  Oh, she ate enough. She’s just a small eater.

  I don’t know if she did. She didn’t hardly touch none of what I give her. I had to scrape most of it to the dog.

  Did he eat it?

  Who?

  Did the dog eat it?

  What in hell do you think? Course he did.

  Well, Harold said. He looked up again now, peering at his brother from above the top of the newspaper. Not everybody likes their beefsteak covered in black pepper.

  Who doesn’t?

  Victoria, maybe.

  He bent back to the paper and Raymond sat at the table watching him. His face took on a disturbed and arrested look, as though he’d been caught in some sudden and disquieting act. You think she didn’t like my cooking? he said.

  I wouldn’t know, Harold said.

  The wind howled and cried. The house creaked.

  An hour later Raymond stood up from the table. I never considered that, he said.

  Considered what?

  About peppering her steak.

  He started upstairs. Harold followed him with his eyes.

  Where you going?

  Up.

  To bed already?

  No.

  He went on. Harold could hear him walking on the pine floorboards overhead. Then he came back down carrying two thick wool blankets that smelled of dust and disuse, and he carried them to the front door and stood in the open doorway in the howling gusts of snow and wind and shook them out. Afterward he crossed to the door and tapped lightly, not wanting to wake her if she were asleep. There was no sound from inside. He stepped in and found that the girl was lying deep under the covers and that the light from the high purple farmlight outside was shining palely onto the bed. He stood for a quiet moment looking at her, at the room and all its new disturbances and the things in it, and then he spread the two blankets over her in the bed. When he turned to come back out, Harold was standing in the doorway watching. They came out together and left the door slightly ajar.

  I didn’t want her to take a chill, Raymond said. Not on her first night.

  Much later in the night she woke up sweating and shoved the blankets aside.

  Guthrie.

  All parties seem to be present, Lloyd Crowder said, so we can get started.

  The five of them were convened in a small room next to the school library, seated at a square table in the middle of the room and Lloyd Crowder, the principal, was presiding. Russell Beckman sat opposite him with his parents on either side. His mother was a short heavy woman who wore a pink sweater that was too tight on her arms and chest, and his father was a big dark-haired man in a shiny white-satin athletic jacket that had HOLT HAWKS lettered across the back. Off to the side of the Beckmans sat Tom Guthrie. He had looked at the Beckmans once when they came in and had then sat waiting silently for the meeting to begin. On the table in front of him were the duplicates of the forms he’d signed, and more forms and more papers were spread out in front of the principal. It was late in the afternoon, two hours after school had been let out for the day.

  I believe you already know one another, Lloyd Crowder said. So I’m going to begin without introductions. And we’ll have this over with. He put his big meaty hands out on the table on top of the papers and leaned forward. What we’re doing here today, as you have been duly informed of, is because a discipline referral has been filed in regard to your son—he looked across the table at the Beckmans—and once that happens, when a referral has been filled out, I’m required by statute to do something about it and I’m going to do that. He surveyed the four faces watching him. I’ll just put it simple. Russell here, the other day in school during the hours that school was in session, acted wrongful and inappropriate, and so we’re here to discuss what all he’s done and to decide what the consequences should be.

  You can stop right there, Mrs. Beckman said, interrupting him. What you just said, that’s a bunch of crap. Her cheeks had turned pink and her sweater was starting to inch upward. Because that’s like you already convicted him without a trial. What’s he done? He never did nothing. What do you say he did?

  I’m going to get to that, Lloyd Crowder said. In due time. If you will let me proceed. He spoke evenly to her, looking directly at her. He held up a small pamphlet and went on: But first, I’m going to read to you from the Student Handbook. On page nine. Where it reads, Following are the behaviors that may result in suspension or other disciplinary action. Then I skip down to Level Three Violation. Where it says, Repeat of any Level Two Violation. Use of or possession of tobacco or drugs on school grounds. Fireworks in school. Harassment. Insubordination. Fighting. Physical and or verbal assault on a staff member. Intimidation or confrontation of a student. Theft. Damage or destruction of school property. Possession or use of weapons. And so on. He looked up. That’s the pertinent regulation. The one Russell here violated.

  How come it is? Mrs. Beckman said. Russell never had his weapons at school. What damage did he ever do to school property?

  Wait, the principal said. You haven’t let me finish. I’m not done yet. Now then, you will want to look at this. He handed her a copy of the discipline referral. She looked at it suspiciously and spread it before her on the table. Her husband and son leaned forward with her to look at it.

  Look it over with me, Lloyd Crowder said. That’s his name at the top and the date of the occurrence. Under that it reads in detail what he did and said. Under that you can read what the recommended punishment is and the consequences for what he did. Which in a case like this one here is a period of suspension up to five days. What it says in so many words, it states that Russell has said something injurious and profane to one of his classmates which caused her public harm and humiliation, and after that, when he was called out into the hallway to discuss it, he cursed and acted in a violent manner against his teacher. Which refers us back to the paragraph in the Student Handbook I just read you. Intimidation and confrontation of a student. Physical and or verbal assault on a staff member.

  Who wrote this? Mrs. Beckman said.

  The secretary made it out, based on the information provided by Mr. Guthrie. She applied the necessary language.

  Then I can tell you what this is, Mrs. Beckman said. This is a pile of shit.

  Guthrie looked across the corner of the table at her. Do you think so? he said.

  Yes, I think so, she said, glaring at him. It is to me. He told us about you. You just don’t appreciate him. That’s what this is about. You got your favorites and he’s not one of them. You haven’t never been fair to Russell since the first day of school. This paper here with these fancy words on it is a pack of lies, and if you want to know what I think, I think you are too.

  Here, the principal said. We’re not going to have this.

  But this is just his side of it, Mrs. Beckman cried. She swung back to face the principal. She picked up the paper and shook it disgustedly in the direction of Tom Guthrie. It’s only what he says. Why don’t you ask Russell what he has to say? Or don’t you care about telling the truth either?

  Careful now, the principal said. You don’t want to say something you’re going to regret tomorrow. I intend to let the boy say his piece. How about it, Russell?

  The big high school boy sat stonelike between his parents. He neither moved nor spoke. He eyed the principal.

  Go ahead, his mother said. What are you waiting on? Tell him what you told us.

  He looked at his mother, then he stared ahead. I never said nothing to her. I don’t care what he says. I was talking to somebody else. He don’t have no proof. He don’t even know if I said anything or not.

  He said something, Guthrie said. E
verybody heard it. And after he said it the girl stopped reading and looked at him. Then she ran out of the room.

  What was it? Ask him that. He don’t know.

  Do you, Tom?

  No. I didn’t hear it clearly, Guthrie said. But I can about guess what it was. I asked the other students, but none of them would repeat it. Whatever it was, it caused her to flee the room.

  How does he know that? Mrs. Beckman said. That’s just his assumption.

  No, Guthrie said. It was more than an assumption. Everybody in the room knew it. Why else would she run out?

  Well my God, Mrs. Beckman said. There’s lots of reasons. She’s pregnant, isn’t she? The little bitch got herself knocked up. Maybe she had to run out and piss in the toilet.

  Lady, Tom Guthrie said, looking at her, you’ve got a filthy mouth. You’re about as ignorant as they come.

  And you’re a dirty liar, she cried.

  Here, the principal said. I already warned you. We’re going to keep this civil and orderly.

  Tell him, then.

  I’m telling both of you. I’ll stop it right now.

  Mrs. Beckman glared at the principal, then she peered at her husband and lastly at her son. She pulled the sweater down tightly over her chest and stomach. All right, she said. What about out in the school hallway? What about that? Tell him your side of what happened there. See how he weasels out of that.

  The high school boy sat as before, sullen and rigid, staring silently across the table.

  Go on, his mother said. Tell him.

  What for? It won’t make no difference. He already made up his mind.

  Tell him anyhow. Tell him like you told us. Go on now.

  He sat looking ahead, looking at nothing, then he began to talk in a flat monotone, as though what he was saying was some indifferent and irksome rehearsal. He called me out of the room out in the hall, he said. I went out there with him. We were talking. Then all of a sudden he grabs me by the arm and twists it up behind my back and shoves me against the lockers. I told him to stop it. Told him he couldn’t touch me. Then I got loose and went outside and went home.

  The principal waited. And that’s all? That’s it. That’s all that happened?