The Sound of Thunder

by Taylor Caldwell

  One light only was burning in the house, at the window near the door. Edward glanced in. The minister was sitting at his desk with his face in his hands; he lifted his head at the sound of the bell and Edward saw his face. The minister, thin and tall, rose to his feet with an effort and came to the door, the bare gaslight showing his tired and hopeless features and thin brown hair. Then the door opened and he looked out at Edward, puzzled.

  “Hello, Mr. Yaeger,” said Edward, speaking cheerily. “I’m Ed Enger, Mr. Heinrich Enger’s son. You know, from the delicatessen.”

  “Oh, yes,” said the minister, in a dull voice. “Will you come in, Ed?” He had never seen Edward before. But he had heard of him from members of the Enger family. This would be the lout, the dolt, the stupid boy of the family. How old was he? About seventeen, a big hulk of a youth.

  “Thanks, Mr. Yaeger, but I’ve got to go on home. Pa just wanted you to have some money for the plate. He couldn’t go to church tonight and he missed this morning. He had a headache.” Edward paused. He knew that one of the two dollars his father had given him was meant for himself, a wordless offering of love and helpless perplexity and understanding. Edward hesitated. Then he pushed the two dollars into the minister’s hand.

  “Why, that’s very generous of Mr. Enger,” said the minister, with surprise and pleasure. Susan needed another pair of shoes for school. Two dollars would buy them! One of the minister’s most urgent worries suddenly disappeared, and he thanked his God with humility and gratitude. After all, a salary of nine hundred dollars a year did not provide too well for a family of five, even if one had a wife who was an expert at remodeling clothing and making one penny do the work of ten. Then the minister’s face saddened. “You said for the plate, Ed?”

  Edward gazed at him and understood with that almost miraculous intuition of his. “No, sir. Not for the plate. It’s something for you personally. Pa was talking only tonight about how ministers have a hard time, specially when they’ve got families, and he said to me, ‘You go and give this to Mr. Yaeger with my compliments.’”

  “Why,” said the minister, blinking dryly, “that’s very kind of your father.” He stood and stared at Edward, whose tanned face was turning red. Edward looked down at his boots. “Mr. Yaeger, I don’t come to church—often. There’s things I have to do on Sundays. I make five dollars most of the time—”

  “On Sundays?” repeated the minister, with some rebuke and sternness. “You work on Sundays and so can’t come to church?”

  Edward’s color became deeper. “Well, yes, sir. It’s something I’ve sort of got to do. So I want to make up for it.” He thrust his hand into his pocket and felt the five dollars in bills and silver. Hell, he didn’t really need the one dollar which his parents permitted him to keep. What was a bicycle, anyway? Besides, he would make it up in a couple of weeks. He brought out a rumpled bill and gave it to the minister. “That’s my own contribution,” he said, awkwardly.

  The minister regarded the bill in his hand. Three dollars altogether! This extra dollar would buy a fine roast for five people, a roast which would last three days. Again he stared at Edward, who was retreating backward down the steps. “Well,” said Edward, “guess I got to say good night, Mr. Yaeger. It’s getting late.”

  “Good night, Ed,” said the minister. He watched Edward go down the walk and then down the street. The boy passed under a lamp. Why, thought the minister, he’s not seventeen, he’s not a man! He’s only a boy, only the age of my own Howard! He has the face of a child. Mr. Yaeger stepped onto the stoop and, with something aching in his heart, he called to Edward. But Edward had disappeared into the black shadow of some murmurous trees and was gone. The minister stood on the stoop for a considerable time, the night breeze stirring his thin hair, and when he went inside the house, he felt, in some mysterious way, that he had seen with an inner eye, and he was more saddened than before. He smoothed the crushed bills on his desk and looked down at them. Then he put aside one of the bills, gently, and touched it with a tender hand. There would be no roast, after all. This would go to his own personal charity, in the secret name of Edward Enger. His sadness disappeared, and he smiled like a youth. A minister sometimes had his own rich rewards.

  Edward, whistling through his teeth, continued on his way. If he went around a few blocks, he would pass the Erie Canal. He hurried. He heard a churchbell sound the stroke of nine. Ma would be mad. But he hurried onward to his favorite rendezvous with himself. He did not often have these opportunities.

  The houses thinned. It was very quiet now, with only that great copper moon standing in the black sky above the black and whispering trees. Edward reached the bank of the canal, and all at once he was at peace. The canal was empty of any barges; the dark water lay motionless, without a ripple. It might have been some wide, deep creek in the heart of a forest, with trees bending over it and the tall grasses and rushes sighing to themselves. Edward leaned against a tree. The moon made a sharp and bloody hole in the water, sinking down endlessly. Blood on the moon. War. All at once Edward thought of this with seriousness and mystery. He remembered that his father was a very timid man, afraid of almost everything. But still he had spoken with anxious surety. Gee, thought Edward, people weren’t that dumb any longer, making up wars. For what? This was America, not Europe. He looked at the red and ominous eye in the water. His spirit became burdened, though he shrugged. “Do I have to worry about other people all the time?” he asked himself severely. “I’ve got my own family to worry about.” Why did he have to think of Mr. Yaeger and all those people in the houses, or sitting on the porches and laughing in the night? He thought of little Margaret and the Baumers, and he sagged against the tree.

  He forced his thoughts away. Now he wished he was an artist, like little Ralph. He would paint the canal like this: black as ink, with the scarlet hole in it from the moon. The trees, black too, shadows in the background. No moon in the sky. That would take away the effect. Maybe a few little blots on the banks huddled together, looking at the terrible omen in the water, beyond speech, and cursing themselves, and perhaps crying without sound. Edward suddenly remembered something from a Sunday-school lesson years ago. “God be merciful to me, a sinner.”

  I sure wish I was an artist, a genius, thought Edward, instead of being dumb like I am.

  He was unutterably depressed. He slowly left the canal, his head bent. Now he walked faster. The church clock dolorously struck fifteen minutes after the hour. He stopped to listen. It was the voice of doom, tolling over the city.

  He would have to run very fast or Ma would really be mad. He had to be up at five tomorrow, to go to the market with his father. He trotted through the silent streets, and under the lamps, and he sweated. If he only had a bicycle, he could make it faster. He counted the payments necessary. In the spring, if he was lucky, he would have enough for the bicycle. His nebulous misery lifted.

  He was near his home now. He was trotting very fast, and he collided with a silent walker on the street, and jumped back with an exclamation of apology. “Gosh, Father Jahle, I’m sorry!” he said. “I didn’t see you.”

  The slender young priest settled his hat, which Edward had caused to slide to the side of his head. “That’s all right, Simon,” he answered. “Late tonight, aren’t you?” His large brown eyes looked affectionately at Edward, but his expression was grave and still. There were deep hollows under his wide cheekbones, and his mouth was very pale. He coughed, a long, wracking cough, and Edward winced as he always winced at that sound.

  “Yes. Had to do something for Pa,” replied the boy. He grinned at the priest and went on. “One of these days, you’ll have to tell me why you call me Simon, Father.”

  “I thought you were going to ask your minister,” said the priest, catching his breath and rubbing his concave chest as if it pained him.

  “Well, it seems like I never have time to ask him,” Edward said. He was embarrassed. He could not explain to the priest that his work devoured so much of his
time that there was nothing left. That would be disloyalty to his parents. Then he saw that the priest was gazing at him deeply, and he stepped aside, his embarrassment increasing, and called over his shoulder, “Good night, Father!” He trotted on.

  The priest watched him until the night had sucked him in, and he thought: “Yes, Simon. But the cross is not too heavy to bear in God’s service, not yet. May the day never come, young Simon, when it will be too heavy, for then your heart will break.” He walked down the street, his hands behind his back, and he prayed for the boy whose footsteps he could no longer hear.

  Edward was in sight of his own home when he heard the softest and sweetest of music on the warm air, almost a whisper of music, melancholy and meditative, as if some disembodied soul spoke of sorrow. It was one with the night and the rising wind and the black shadows of the trees stretching across the cobbled streets. A Negro boy of Edward’s own age was leaning against a tree in the flickering light of the street lamp and he was playing a harmonica, his lanky body bent forward from the tree, his fingers glimmering, his dusky curls trembling.

  “Billy!” said Edward, with pleasure. “What’re you doing out here so late?”

  Billy continued to play and Edward listened. The Negro boy’s face was withdrawn, the color of bronze, and as smooth. His feet were bare, and his blue shirt and black trousers were patched and frayed. It was a fine harmonica, made in Germany, and it had cost two dollars, and Edward had given it to Billy as a gift. As always, when Edward listened to the frail and wailing organ, notes of the instrument when Billy played it, he forgot his own regret at having had to part with it and he was grateful and exalted. Billy, his friend, was also a genius. He would be famous someday, Edward would insist. Billy would gaze at him cynically but he never answered with bitterness. “I guess I’ll just be happy if I learn to play it right,” he invariably said. “I guess you deserve that, for giving it to me.”

  The mournful music ended without a flourish; the last notes drifted from the harmonica like a few moonlit moths. Billy said, “You forgot we were going to walk to the canal tonight, after your old man closed up.”

  “I’m awfully sorry,” said Edward. “But he wanted me to do something for him, and it was kind of important, and I got there late.”

  Billy shrugged. “It don’t matter,” he said, and lifted himself away from the tree. “Next Sunday night?”

  “Sure, Billy.” Edward paused. He thought of his friend’s long walk back to the black ghetto where he lived, with the leaning old wooden houses, the dirty street thronged with half-starved children, the cowed old women with the kerchiefs on their heads, and the weary men with their dinner pails. “I wish I could walk a ways with you, Billy, but it’s awful late.”

  “Don’t matter,” said Billy, patiently. “You got your own troubles.” He wiped the harmonica lovingly with a shred of soiled cloth, wrapped it up, and put it in his pocket. Then he smiled at Edward and his smile was inexpressibly sweet and comprehending, his white teeth glittering in the lamplight. “Sure going to miss you at school, though.”

  “That’s right,” said Edward. The two boys stood in silence and looked at each other, and Billy thought, Boy, you got worse troubles than me, even if you eat regular. After a few moments Billy lifted his hand nonchalantly in farewell and glided, rather than walked, into the shadows of the trees. Crickets suddenly shrilled to the night, and there was a scent of old hot dust in the air as the wind rose and the dry trees clattered. I wish I could do something for him, really something, Edward said in himself. How does a feller get to be a millionaire?

  His home was dark, except for the light of an oil lamp on the kitchen table. Edward opened the back door, and stepped into the kitchen. To his surprise he saw that his mother was sitting at the table, reading quietly, the white oilcloth no paler than her extraordinary hair, which rolled back from her large and flabby face in a high pompadour. Her big and formless body, in its black Sunday silk, was braced with high dignity against the back of the chair, and she held the book as she had been taught as a child—with both hands, one at the side, the other at the bottom. In spite of her bulk and gracelessness, she had a stately air of breeding, not affected but instinctive.

  She rarely, if ever, read in the kitchen, though she worked there. She never served her family any meal, except breakfast, in the kitchen, which was the cheeriest room in the house, with its wide black stove trimmed with bright nickel, its gay white-and-red linoleum, its ticking cuckoo clock from the Black Forest, its chairs padded with chintz, and its red-and-white checked curtains at the windows. The family would have preferred to eat here, but they dared not offend the mother’s sense of propriety, and permitted themselves to be crowded in the lightless and narrow dining room, which was too small for so large a family.

  Maria Enger lifted her pale and formidable eyes when her son entered the kitchen and put aside her book with measured movements. “You are very late,” she said in her very correct high German. “Where is your father?” Her mouth had no determined outlines, and practically no color, and it was wide, yet it gave an impression of an unyielding and resolute nature, ponderously strict and hard. Her voice was low and well-bred, and she rarely if ever raised it in vehemence or excitement.

  “I’m sorry, Mother,” replied Edward in German. “I remained to clean and lock up the shop. My father had an appointment with the minister, Mr. Yaeger, and they had matters to discuss.”

  Maria regarded Edward oddly. She lifted the watch on her massive bosom and looked at the face with significance. There was something strange about her tonight and she had not stared at her son with her usual cold impatience and intolerance. She dropped the watch on her breast again, withdrew a white, lace-edged handkerchief from her tight black sleeve, and touched it to her fleshy nose. There was a hesitancy about her. She said in an abstracted tone: “All the others are in their beds. I, too, should have retired. Yet I waited for you.”

  She turned her head, and Edward saw her profile outlined against the lamp. Her almost colorless eyes, in that position, protruded unpleasantly, the whites streaked with red veins, and the whole expression of them gelid and stiff. She had never at any time possessed any beauty, except for her hair and her voice, and the amazing smallness and delicacy of her arched feet, but her profile was less attractive even than her full face, and larger than ordinary profiles, with the nose shown in all its prominence, and the upper lip long and merciless.

  “You should not have waited, Mother,” said Edward, intimidated and uneasy. He began to sidle toward the door that led into a tiny dank hall. His mother lifted her hand. “I have something to say to you, Edward. You will please sit opposite me in that chair.” She let her hand drop to the table, a big hand, as characterless as her body, but a hand scarred and reddened with work.

  Edward seated himself and drew a deep breath and braced himself. He was suddenly conscious of being very tired, and there was a sense of defeat in him. He was wretchedly sure that he was to be kept in this kitchen until his father returned, when both of them would be subjected to a rigorous cross-examination to explain their lateness. It would end, as usual, with his father pretending to be angry with him, and then the anger becoming real out of frustration and fear of Maria, and out of some sick shame. Edward said hastily: “Please do not be annoyed with my father. There were customers at the last moment, and my father broke his rule for the women with children. Then there was much ordering to be done, with which I helped.”

  “And there was the Herr Minister,” said Maria. “You have said it before.” But her voice was not hard, and Edward looked at her in perplexity. “I understand, Edward. I will discuss it no further.”

  The cuckoo clock ticked loudly in the silence. The wind stirred the curtains at the windows. The mirror over the white sink winked and moved. Mother and son regarded each other without speaking. It was Maria who looked away first. She pointed to a chair, and Edward’s eyes followed the pointing. Little Ralph’s paintbox, black-enameled, lay there, and h
is pad of artist’s paper. “You will bring me the paper,” said Maria. Somewhat dazed, Edward rose wearily and lifted the pad in his hand. There was something painted on its top sheet, something stiffly painted in water colors in a full and lifeless brown, something that perched on a twig. Ralph had evidently attempted to paint—a hen.

  “Betsy!” said Edward. “Is this, Mother, a painting of my Betsy?” He was touched, even though this creature did not express his pet, though it was drawn with painful exactness, every brown feather outlined with thick black paint. The wattles were an unnatural red, the legs and claws bright yellow, the brown eye dull. There was not a single smear on this neat parody of a living bird, this careful, unimaginative parody. For some mysterious reason he himself could not understand, Edward felt a twinge of pity for the child who had drawn and painted this. He turned to his mother; she was smiling sternly, as if pleased at his reaction and recognition.

  “It is a gift to you from your brother, who will be a famous artist and greatly honored in the world,” she said.

  “Well, thanks,” said Edward, awkwardly. He looked away from her to the painting. He could not understand why his youngest brother, the lusty and excitable Ralph, forever demanding, forever having artistic tantrums, should go to all this effort for a despised brother. Edward was very moved. But that eye; it was lifeless. He looked longingly at the paints forbidden him. “It is very good of Ralph. It is a very good likeness of Betsy.”

  He heard, rather than saw, his mother shift in her chair. “It is a sacrifice to be an artist,” she said. “And others must sacrifice for those who are gifted.”