by Kent Haruf
Yeah.
You didn’t hit him?
No.
You didn’t say anything else?
Like what?
You tell me.
No. I never said nothing else.
That’s not what it says here, the principal said.
So. The boy stared sullenly forward. That’s just his bullshit anyway.
The principal looked at the boy for a long moment. Studying him, thinking. Then he appeared to have made a decision. He began to put the papers and pamphlets before him into order and to slide them into a manila folder. The others at the table watched him silently. When he finished collecting his papers, he looked up. I think that’ll about do it for today, he said. I think I’ve heard enough. I’ve made up my mind. Son, I’m going to suspend you for five days starting tomorrow like the rules call for. You’ll get zeros in all your classes for that period of time, and you’ll be required to stay completely away from school; I don’t want to see you anywhere near this building for the next five school days. Understand? You might just manage to learn something yet even if it doesn’t come out of a book.
As soon as he finished, Mrs. Beckman jumped up violently from her seat, knocking her chair over backward. It clattered on the floor. Her entire face had turned red and her sweater had risen again, showing a little of her soft stomach. She whirled on her husband. Well, my God, she cried. I never thought I’d see this. Aren’t you going to say something? You heard him. You heard what he said. You’re his father. Are you just going to sit there like nothing happened?
Her tall thin husband, sitting next to her in his satin athletic jacket, was not even looking at her. He was looking at the principal across the table. When you think you can shut your goddamn mouth, he said quietly, and can keep it shut, I’ll say something. His wife glared at him. She started to say something more but thought better of it and pinched her lips shut. He continued to look across the table at Lloyd Crowder. After a moment he spoke again. I don’t know nothing about this referral and suspension happy-horse-shit, he said. I don’t care about it. It don’t concern me. But this better not mean my boy can’t play basketball this weekend.
That’s exactly what it does mean, the principal said. He can’t practice. He can’t dress out. He can’t play in any basketball game of any kind for the next five school days.
You know there’s two games this weekend, Beckman said. You know that. It’s a tournament.
I ought to know it. I’ve been on the phone all day about it.
And now you’re telling me you won’t let him play.
Not till five school days have passed.
On account of what Guthrie here claims my boy said to some little knocked-up half-breed schoolgirl.
That. And what happened out in the hallway.
And that’s your final word. You made up your mind.
Yes.
Your final decision.
That’s right.
All right then, you fat son of a bitch, Beckman said. There’s other ways to deal with this.
The principal leaned heavily forward across the table toward Beckman. You want to hold up right there, he said. Are you threatening me? I want to know.
Take it how you want. You heard what I said.
No, by God. I don’t have to take this. I’ve been here a long time. I’m going to be here till I’m ready to quit. And you nor nobody else in this room had better think otherwise. Now this meeting is over.
Beckman stared at him. Then he rose up from the table and made a violent backward motion at his wife and son. They started out of the room and he followed, but at the door he turned back. Just remember, he said, you fat tub of guts, there’s always ways. I’m not forgetting this. I’m going to remember. I won’t forget none of this. Then he turned and shoved his wife and boy out of the room and the three of them went down the hallway.
When they were gone the principal sat for a moment musing, gazing distractedly at the open doorway. After a while he shook himself and turned toward Tom Guthrie. Well, he said. You see what you got us into. This here has got me upset and I wasn’t going to let it. I told myself I wouldn’t. I didn’t plan on it. It’s not how I like to conduct my business. But I’ll tell you something. You better be careful now.
You mean with them? Guthrie said.
That’s right.
What about you?
Oh, he’s not going to do anything to me. That’s only show. He had to do that. But you better just take it easy. You don’t want to mess with these folks. And that boy when he comes back, ease up on him for God’s sake. I told you before, we want him graduated and out of here.
He better do the work then.
Even if he doesn’t, the principal said.
I’m not changing my mind, Guthrie said.
You better listen to me, the principal said. You better hear what I’m telling you.
Ike and Bobby.
They went up the wood stairs and back along the narrow dimlit corridor after school in the afternoon, but not to collect. When she opened the door Iva Stearns said, It’s not Saturday. What is it? Are you collecting early?
No, Ike told her.
What then? What’d you come for?
They turned their heads and peered into the corridor behind them, too humble and embarrassed to say what it was they wanted even if they could have said exactly what that was.
Mrs. Stearns watched them. I see, she said. You better come in here in that case.
They passed into the room wordlessly. Her apartment was just as it always was: crowded rooms that were too hot, the stores of papers and old bills on the floor and the grocery sacks of her saved remnants loaded onto the ironing board and the portable tv on top of the big hardwood console, and over it all the inevitable smell of her cigarette smoke and the accumulation of Holt County dust. She shut the door and stood looking at them, thinking, considering, a humpbacked woman in a thin blue housedress and apron, wearing a pair of men’s wool socks inside her worn slippers, leaning on her twin silver canes.
I tell you what we better do, she said. I’ve been thinking of making cookies. But I don’t have all of the ingredients and I’ve been too lame and too lazy to go get them. You might go purchase them for me, would you?
What do you need? they said.
I’ll make a list. Do you boys eat oatmeal cookies?
Yes. We like them.
Very well. That’s what we’ll make.
She lowered herself into the stuffed chair against the wall. It took a considerable period of time. When she was seated she caught her breath and stood the two canes beside the chair. She settled the skirts of her dress and apron over her thin knees, then she said, Bring me my purse from the table in there. You know where it is.
Bobby stepped into the next room, where it was just as crowded and just as hot, and found her purse and brought it back and set it in her lap. They stood in front of the chair, watching. Her head was bent forward and they could see that the fine thin yellow-white hair scarcely covered her skull and that her ears looked raw where the bows of her glasses fit over them. The cord of her old-fashioned hearing aid curled down into the neck of her housedress where it disappeared.
She opened the leather purse and took out a wallet, then extracted ten dollars. She gave the money to Ike. That should be more than enough, she said. Bring back the change.
Yes, ma’am.
Now what do we need? She peered at them as if they might know. They stared back at her patiently, simply waiting, standing in front of her. We need most of it, she said.
She took out an ink pen and scratched about in the purse but could not find what else she wanted.
Here, she said. Give me something to write on. That paper will do. Hand me that newspaper. It was the morning’s Denver News, still rolled in the rubber band the boys had put on it early that morning at the depot. She unrolled it and from the front page tore off a ragged piece and began to write along the white margin, listing the ingredients—oatmeal, eggs, brown
sugar—writing in the old school-taught Palmer script in the fluid style, but shaky now as though she were shivering from cold or fever. There, she said. I gave you the money. She looked at Ike. I’m giving you the shopping list, she said to Bobby. She handed him the scrap of newspaper. Go ahead now. Go on. I’ll be waiting.
But where should we get these, Mrs. Stearns? Ike said.
At Johnson’s. You know the grocery store.
Yes. We know it.
That’s where.
They turned and started out.
Wait, she said. How are you going to get back in here? I don’t want to have to get up and answer the door again. She took a key from the purse and handed it to them.
They left her apartment and went down the stairs to the sidewalk and into the sharp winter air on Main Street and on to Johnson’s at the corner of Second. When they were inside the store it was a good deal more complicated than they had thought it would be. On the ranks of shelves were two brands of brown sugar. Also, there were quick oats and regular oats and two measures of the cardboard barrels they came in. And with eggs, three sizes and two colors. They debated the matter between themselves, standing in the aisles of the store while around them the other shoppers, middle-aged women and young mothers, looked at them curiously and went on pushing their full carts.
We settled on the cheap brown sugar, Ike said.
Yes, Bobby said.
And the big one of regular oats.
Yes.
So now with eggs we take the medium ones.
Why?
Because they’re in the middle.
So?
It makes a difference, Ike said. The one between the other two ones. It makes it even.
Bobby looked at him, considering. All right, he said. Which color?
Which color?
Brown or white.
They turned toward the refrigerated case once more and regarded the tiers of cardboard egg cartons. Mother bought white ones, Ike said.
She’s not our mother, Bobby said. Maybe she wants brown ones.
Why would she want brown ones?
She had us get brown sugar.
So?
Because it comes in white too, Bobby said. Only she said brown.
All right, Ike said. Brown eggs.
All right, Bobby said.
Medium sized.
All right then.
They carried the eggs and oats and sugar up to the front of the store to the cash register and paid the checkout woman. She smiled at them. You boys making something good? she said. They didn’t answer but took the change from her hand and went back outside and up the stairs to the old woman’s dark and overheated rooms above the alley. They used the key and went in without knocking and discovered her asleep in the chair they’d left her in. She was breathing faintly, a quiet sigh and recover, her head lapsed forward onto the yoke of her blue housedress. They approached and stood before her, hesitant, and seeing how faint the movement was in her chest, watching the meager rise and collapse of the housedress, they felt a little frightened. Ike leaned forward and said, Mrs. Stearns. We’re back. They stood before her, waiting. They watched her. Mrs. Stearns, he said. He leaned forward again. We’re here. He touched her arm.
Abruptly she stopped breathing. She choked a little. Her eyes fluttered open behind the glasses and she raised her head to look about. Well. Are you back?
We just came in, Ike said. Just now.
What trouble did you have at the grocery store?
None. We got everything.
Good, she said.
They handed her the leftover money and the grocery receipt and she held her open palm in front of her face, counting the money with her finger, and put the bills and coins away in her purse. They handed her the front-door key but she said, I’m going to trust you with that. You can come in if you need to. And I won’t have to get up to let you in. Maybe you’ll want to sometime. She looked at them. All right? They nodded. Very well, she said. Let me see if I can stand up. Slowly she began to rise from the chair, pushing back with her fisted hands against the armrests. They wanted to help her but didn’t know where she might be touched. At last she stood erect. It’s ridiculous to get so old, she said. It’s stupid and ridiculous. She took up her canes. Stand back so I don’t trip on you.
They followed her scraping into the kitchen, where they hadn’t been before: a little room with a small window overlooking the tarred roof of the next building, and a plain wood table with a toaster on it, a half-refrigerator, a trash can and an old hard enameled sink containing a single dirty coffee cup and the toast crumbs of her breakfast.
Wash your hands, she said. That’s first. Here.
They stood next to one another before the sink. Afterward she handed them a towel. Then she told them to take down the additional ingredients from the cupboard and set them out on the table, following the order of the old recipe she’d cut from the top of an oatmeal barrel, the recipe gray and worn now, grease-smeared but still legible.
What’s next? she said. Read it.
Vanilla.
Up there. On the middle shelf. Then what?
Baking soda.
There. She pointed. Anything else?
No. That’s all.
All right, she said. You understand? If you can read you can cook. You can always feed yourselves. You remember that. I’m not just talking about here. When you go home too. Do you understand what I’m saying?
They looked at her gravely. Bobby read the scrap of recipe print again. What does cream mean? he said.
Where?
It says cream the butter and sugars.
That means mix them together until they’re soft, she said. Like heavy cream.
Oh.
You use a fork for that.
They began to put it all in and they stirred it together in the bowl while she stood beside them overseeing, instructing, then they spooned dollops of batter onto the greased sheet and set the raw cookies in the oven.
I’ve been thinking, she said. I’m going to show you something. While we wait.
She shuffled into the next room and came back carrying a flat and ragged cardboard box and set it on the table and removed the lid, then she showed them photographs that had been much-handled in the long afternoons and evenings of her solitary life, photographs that had been lifted out and examined and returned to the black picture book album, the album itself of an old shape and style. They were all of her son, Albert. That’s him, she told them. Her tobacco-stained finger pointed at one of the photographs. That’s my son. He died in the war. In the Pacific.
The boys bent forward to see him.
That’s my Albert in his Navy uniform. That’s my favorite picture of him as a grown man. Do you see that look on his face? Oh, he was a handsome boy.
He was a tall thin boy in a dark Navy uniform, wearing his dress blues, and his white dixie cup pushed back on his head, his shoes gleaming. In the picture he was squinting into the sun. Behind him there was a tree in leaf and a pool of dark shade. He was grinning terrifically.
I miss him every day, she said. I still do.
She turned the page and there was a photograph of the same boy standing with his arm draped around the shoulders of a slender woman with dark wavy hair in a white gabardine dress.
Who’s that? they said. That lady with him.
Who do you think? she said.
They shrugged. They didn’t know.
That’s me. Couldn’t you guess?
They turned to look at her, examining her face.
That’s how I used to look, she said. I was young once too, don’t you know.
Her face was close to theirs, old and bespectacled, agespotted; she had soft loose cheeks, her thin hair was pulled back. She smelled of cigarette smoke. They looked again at the picture of her when she was a young woman wearing a handsome white dress in the company of her son.
That was when Albert was home for the last time, she said.
Where was his father? I
ke said. Was he home too?
No, he was not. Her voice changed. She sounded bitter and tired now. He was gone by then. His father was nowhere. That’s where he was.
Bobby said, Our mother’s in Denver now.
Oh, she said. She looked at him. Their faces were close. Yes, I think I heard something about that.
Because she was just renting that house, Ike said. She’s in Denver staying with her sister.
I see.
We’ll be going to visit her pretty soon. At Christmastime.
That’ll be good, won’t it. She must miss you terribly. I would. Like breath itself. I know she does too.
She calls on the phone sometimes, Ike said.
The timer dinged on the stove. They took the first oatmeal cookies out of the oven and now there was the smell of cinnamon and fresh baking in the dark little room. The boys sat at the table and ate the cookies together with the milk Mrs. Stearns had poured out into blue glasses. She stood at the counter watching them and sipped at a cup of hot tea and ate a small piece of a cookie, but she wasn’t hungry. After a while she smoked a cigarette and tapped the ashes in the sink.
You boys don’t say very much, she said. I wonder what you’re thinking all the time.
About what?
About anything. About the cookies you made.
They’re good, Ike said.
You can take them home with you, she said.
Don’t you want them?
I’ll keep a few. You take the rest home when you go.
Guthrie.
Maggie Jones said, You’re not leaving so soon?
Guthrie stood in the front hall with his winter coat in his hand, while behind Maggie other teachers stood about in groups holding little paper plates of food, drinking and talking, and still others sat in chairs and on the davenport. In the corner of the living room one of them was listening to Maggie Jones’s father. The old man had on a corduroy shirt and a green tie and he was gesturing with both hands, telling the woman something, some story out of his own old time when he was young.
Why so soon? Maggie said. It’s still early.
I’m not much for these things, Guthrie said. I think I’ll go on.
Where are you going?
