The Sound of Thunder

by Taylor Caldwell

  A sudden foreboding, a sudden horror, came to Edward. He came to the table and put the pad on it. He wet his lips. “Betsy?” he murmured. Betsy had somehow gotten free of her pen early tonight. “Betsy?” he repeated.

  “Ralph permitted her out of the crude cage you made, Edward,” said Maria, with severity. “He is very young. And as an artist he constantly searches for objects to paint.”

  “I put her back in her pen before I left for the shop,” said Edward.

  “Yes, my son. And after you left, Ralph wished to continue with his work. He released the hen. Unfortunately she escaped from the yard.”

  Edward turned impulsively toward the outer door, with the wild thought that he must find Betsy alone in the night, Betsy who was just a pullet, who was tame and trustful.

  “Edward!” said Maria, sharply. “It is no use. You must be sensible. I know your attachment for the creature, which is ridiculous. It is no use at all. A cat caught her near the end of the street and carried her away.”

  Edward sat down, his knees weak and trembling. He clutched them with his strong young hands. His breath came hard, and his gray eyes were stricken and terrible.

  In spite of a tremendous effort, Maria could not look away from those eyes. “It is only a hen,” she said. “A mindless thing, a bird. It is true that you loved her, you, Edward, almost a man. One must have a sense of proportion in these matters. One must not be absurd. One can buy another hen for fifty cents, though it is a waste if one is not to think of eggs or the pot. If you are determined to be ridiculous again and fondle a soulless creature when you have a sister and brothers to love and serve, you may keep fifty cents extra from this day’s work and buy another chicken.”

  Edward had no words. He could see Betsy vividly, in the cat’s bloody mouth, Betsy screaming for help when there was no help, Betsy whom he loved and who had loved him. He closed his eyes convulsively, and when he did so, Maria’s harsh mouth quivered and she could look away at last.

  “I am sorry,” she said, stiffly.

  Edward, in his suffering, did not remark to himself that he had never heard his mother say such a thing to anyone before. Betsy was dead. There would be no joyous flutter tomorrow when he went to the pen. There would be no eager scramble into his hands, no frantic pecking of delight and affection. An awful loneliness, an awful grief, ran over him like a black and smothering wave, and he sobbed aloud, without tears.

  He opened his eyes on a swimming mist and then the mist cleared and he saw the excruciatingly neat and stiffened painting near his arm. He lifted it and stared at it and rubbed the back of his other hand against his tanned forehead. His mother sat in silence and watched him, and the gelid hardness between her lashes was less like glass than usual.

  Edward swung his head aside, in his anguish, and dropped the pad on the table again. His eyes fell on Ralph’s paints, which he had bought. He stood up slowly, like an old man, and went to the chair. He opened the paints, gazed at them as if in a daze. Then he took up a brush, filled a glass with water, and carried the paints to the table. With great care he placed water and paints near together, wet the brush, and with amazing sureness he swirled the brush on a bright yellow plaque, added a small amount of white. He drew Ralph’s drawing to him. He bent his head over it. The dead eye, in a second or two, shone into life and fervor, brightened into intelligent love. Edward dipped the brush into the water again, swirled it into the brown plaque, then into the yellow and softened the unbending outlines of the bird’s body, so that it seemed to fluff into soft feathers and stand out from the paper. He muted the wattles, the yellow beak. He gentled the legs and claws. The painted bird arched its neck as if to call. The rigid twig curved, became a light green branch, bursting into living leaf.

  And all this time Maria said nothing, and only watched, and saw the rough strands of her son’s shaggy hair as he bent over the pad. The cuckoo burst from its wooden nest and announced, with violent head bobbings, that it was half past ten. A polished copper tap dripped into the sink, with the faint sound of tears. The crickets shrilled violently, and there was a mutter of thunder in the sky.

  At last Edward was finished. He had worked in a dreamlike state. He pushed the painting aside, drew it to him again, studied it, and then once more rejected it. It was not Betsy, after all. It lived and breathed, but it was not Betsy.

  Not looking at his mother, not speaking, he left the kitchen, shambling as if exhausted.

  Maria’s hands lay thickly in her lap. It was not for some time that she took up the painting. She looked at it long and thoughtfully. Her formidable eyes fogged and she was angry with herself. She was also frightened. She lifted her head indomitably and frowned. The strongest must be sacrificed for the best.… She studied the painting again, and shook her head as if in denial. It was not to be considered. It is Ralph’s painting, she silently and determinedly insisted.

  She picked up the still wet and discarded brush. In the right-hand corner she printed the letter “R.” Then the brush felt weighted in her hand, and something squeezed in her breast. She made the “R” into an “E” and finished the name: “E. L. E. 1904.” She carried it into the tiny bedroom off the kitchen, which she shared with her husband, and covered the painting with sheets of tissue paper and hid it away.

  When Heinrich fearfully and guiltily returned half an hour later, he found the light burning in the empty kitchen. His wife, in their big white bed, was apparently asleep. She did not stir when he let himself cautiously down beside her. And he never knew that she had been weeping. It would have been incredible to him that a Von Brunner would weep at all.

  It was after breakfast the next day that Edward Enger’s reeducation began remorselessly. He had not slept all night, grieving over his pet. He wrestled with a cold rage when he thought of little Ralph, a fury which continued to surge up in spite of his reasoning that Ralph was only a child, and careless, and had meant no harm. However, toward dawn the rage subsided into the exhaustion of common sense. There was that cat I accidentally hit with a baseball bat and killed, he told himself. It was like that with Ralph. The fool kid didn’t know what could happen to a little hen when it got loose.

  As usual Edward appeared in the kitchen before anyone else except Maria, who was at the stove. She gave her son a sidelong glance of commiseration, but her voice was without emotion when she greeted him. What was done was done. Only the stupid bewailed what could no longer be helped. She placed a large plate of pancakes before Edward and poured a cup of coffee for him. The house was quiet, the sunlight still on walls and floor, and the breeze cool and fresh as it gushed through the small windows.

  Ralph came bounding into the kitchen, laughing his usual boisterous laugh and capering. He began to shout at his mother, then saw Edward. He stopped at once, staring at his brother, and blinking, his red underlip moving in and out warily. Edward avoided looking at him, for the fury boiled in his throat and he felt nauseated. Ralph sidled toward his mother and said, “Where’s my picture, huh, Ma? My picture of that ole hen?”

  “I put it away,” said Maria, severely, and tried to silence her youngest child with a twitching gesture of her white apron. “Never mind. Sit down and have your breakfast.”

  Edward neither turned his head nor spoke. He slowly drank his coffee, warning himself wearily that Ralph was “only a kid, and kids don’t mean harm.” His averted profile, the sternness of it, and his silence aroused the excitable Ralph, for, like all young children, he could not bear to be ignored. There was that silly ole Ed, pretending not to see nobody, pretending to be real grown up! Stingy ole Ed, fooling around with that silly ole hen! Ralph’s black eyes began to glow and flicker with malice. He capered to the table, seized a spoon, and banged it down hard beside Edward’s relaxed hand.

  “Yah!” he screamed. “Your little ole stoopid hen! Ran away and got caught by the cat! Funniest thing you ever saw! I laughed and laughed—”

  “Ralph!” exclaimed Maria, and her pallid face flushed. Ralph wheeled on her
with rising excitement.

  “I laughed and laughed!” he shouted, and stamped his foot. “I saw that ole cat—”

  “Ralph,” said Maria again, and advanced toward him. He backed away, bursting into laughter and evading his mother’s hand. Edward sat up in his chair, his pale lips falling apart.

  “I saw that ole cat!” Ralph shrieked. “Licking her ole mouth for a Sunday chicken dinner. Real ole hungry cat. And I shooed that silly hen at her, and the cat grabbed it by the neck, and it squawked like crazy—!” He clapped his hands with delight and jumped high once or twice as if in an ecstasy.

  Edward stood up very slowly. He said, and his voice was very quiet, “You let the cat get my hen? You meant to do it?”

  “No, Edward, no!” said Maria. “It is not true. He is always making up the stories; he is only a child and likes excitement.”

  “I did so mean to do it,” said Ralph, and stamped his foot furiously. “He wouldn’t give me a nickel Saturday, but he bought that ole hen some stuff from the feed store! Bet it cost more’n a nickel, too, and I said I’d fix him!” He glared at Edward, and his eyes were dancing with hatred, and Edward saw that hatred. And it stunned him like a blow over his heart.

  Why should his brother hate him? What had he done to arouse hatred? It seemed terribly necessary for Edward to know that; in the intensity of his desire he even forgot his pet. “Wait, Ma,” he said to Maria, who was reaching for Ralph again. His hand was lifted with new authority toward his mother, and Maria let her own hand drop. He regarded Ralph fixedly. “You’re not lying,” he said. “I know that. But I want to know why you’d hate me enough to hurt me. I’m not going to hit you, Ralph. I just want to know.”

  The little boy blinked at him, and a curious smooth blandness moved over his face. He began to giggle. “Sure, I hate you,” he said, cheerfully. “Most everybody does. D’you have to have a reason to hate somebody except they’re that person?”

  “You see, he speaks foolishly—like a child,” said Maria, disturbed by Edward’s expression. She moved between him and Ralph, not to protect the latter but with a vague thought of protecting Edward himself from some ugly knowledge.

  Edward shook his head. “No, Ma. He isn’t speaking foolishly. He isn’t even speaking like a kid. He talks—why,” and Edward was stunned again, “just like everybody in the world. And I never knew it before! I was too dumb to know what I’d been hearing all my life, everywhere. I just couldn’t believe people would hate for no reason at all, no reason at all! But now I know. It’s the way people are made.”

  Maria was silent, and Ralph was silent and no longer grinning.

  “I don’t think I’ll ever like people again,” said Edward, in a low voice as if speaking to himself. “Why, they make me sick at the stomach.” He thought, his head bent. “I can see it now. People hate and then they’ve got to make up a reason for their hating. And all the time I thought it was the other way around. A reason first and then hate, but it isn’t. If there’s—God—He must feel something like I feel now, about people.”

  “It’s wrong to hate. You mustn’t hate Ralph,” said Maria.

  Edward looked at her with wonder. “I don’t hate him. I just understand,” he said with painful explanation. “I just know the facts now.”

  He turned and went out of the kitchen. Maria could see the top of his dark head passing below the windows. Then for the first time she raised her hand and brought it with cold and determined anger against Ralph’s cheek, and the boy staggered and fell into a chair. He began to bawl loudly and eyed his mother with fright as she stood over him.

  “Just because of that ole hen, you hit me! Just because that ole hen got killed—!”

  “It wasn’t only the hen you killed,” she said, without emotion, moved away, and sat down at the table.

  CHAPTER III

  “What is this that makes Eddie not speak or explain to me why he is so quiet and stern?” Heinrich asked his wife. He was bewildered, for he thought he guessed or knew the reason for Edward’s occasional sulks, as Sylvia called them.

  “It is nothing. Or it is only the hen he lost,” said Maria. But she said to herself, My son has the Weltschmerz, the pain of the world. No one knew that she also suffered this pain in silence, this strange and paralyzing pain which afflicted the spirit and silenced its very voice so that it could not pray or have joy or contentment, but only a depthless anguish without sound. One did not speak of suffering, as she and Edward understood.

  Heinrich thought that she spoke indifferently, and he felt some small indignation. He faltered, “It was no small thing to him, that hen.” He had contradicted his wife, and he was amazed at his courage, and then he wilted. These aristocrats could never understand an earthy soul who had only love to offer, and who lived for love and duty, and so appeared gross to the patrician.

  The family was impatiently accustomed to Edward’s infrequent silences and withdrawals, which baffled all but Maria, though Heinrich invariably believed that he knew the causes. These withdrawals usually lasted only a week at the very most. But now it was early December and he was still remote. He worked harder than ever; he drove himself. He had even taken on jobs after the shop closed at night. He silently gave the money to his mother, who as silently accepted it. Once she thought, It is not possible for him to understand that I love him and that I know what he truly is. It is good that he does not know. He is all the hope we have; in his withdrawals he gathers strength. If he knew he had love also, he would weaken and we should be lost.

  “You have been despondent for many weeks, Eddie,” said Heinrich one day when the shop was empty. “You must not brood. It is very unkind. The mother feels it. I have seen her watching you. There is a very strange look in her eyes such as I have never seen before.”

  Edward wiped up some shreds of ham from the spotless counter. Under the brownness of his skin he had a sallowness, and he had lost weight. He did not answer his father. Heinrich saw his profile, sharpened now, fixed in suffering. “Do not sulk,” Heinrich implored in German. “It is not well for the young to sulk, to have grievances.”

  Edward looked at him then and tried to smile. “I do not have grievances,” he said. He said in English, “Pa, stop worrying. We’re almost out of ham. I’ll have to go to the market myself tomorrow and pick up a few pieces.”

  Heinrich was cheered. “It comes Christmas soon,” he said. He blinked imploringly at his son. “I am thinking of a dog for you, Eddie. You have always wanted a dog. A loving puppy, perhaps?”

  “No,” said Edward. He turned to his father and saw the humble, blinking eyes, and he felt a squeezing of his heart. Poor Pa. He was an awful worry to his father. “You know that Ma wouldn’t stand a dog. We’ve talked about that before. Never mind. I’ve just been in the dumps. We need some more corned beef and salami. How’s the English tongue going?”

  “We’ve sold it all,” Heinrich said enthusiastically. “All but four tins. Such a genius at selling are you, Eddie. I have ordered another case.”

  “We’ve got to get some Christmas specials soon,” said Edward. He opened a catalogue. “Let’s see. French artichokes in vinegar and oil. Um. A case, perhaps. Listen to this! Pâté de foi gras. Stuffed anchovies. Caviar, English chutney, Chinese teas. English marmalade, Seville oranges, smoked kippers, English biscuits, Dutch cheeses, Roquefort, Camembert, Swiss chocolate. Look at the pictures, Pa! Never tasted them in my life; bet they’re wonderful.” His young face lighted up with pleasure. “They’ll make you think of the countries they came from. Look, here’s some Italian pepperone. You can order them all from that place in New York. Things no one here ever dreamed of.”

  “You are not serious,” said Heinrich, appalled and retreating. “That is all very well for New York or even Albany, where the senators are and the governor. But not for this city, this Waterford. Who would buy such delicacies?”

  “Everybody,” said Edward, with a large gesture. The darkness left the smoky pupils of his eyes, and they were radiant aga
in. “Who says people in Waterford or anywhere else can’t appreciate good things to eat? Why do we have to have just staples all the time? We can educate people to luxuries. We’ll be a success!”

  “A success we are already!” cried Heinrich, very frightened.

  Edward leaned his elbows on a counter and soberly contemplated his father. Heinrich nervously smoothed down the little black rim of hair around his skull. He tried to avoid Edward’s stare.

  “Look, Pa,” said Edward quietly. “What are we? A delicatessen. Some good Wisconsin cheeses. Some better ham. Some better corned beef. A service to the neighborhood, yes. When the grocery stores are closed. How much did we net last year? Two thousand dollars. You were very pleased, weren’t you? How much do we have in the bank? About six thousand dollars. And here the kids are growing up. How’re you going to give them what they want, the advantages they want and must have? Ma knows they’re geniuses, but she isn’t going to part with that six thousand dollars and I don’t blame her. We have a separate account for the education of the kids. Two thousand dollars. That’s going to send Dave to New York, isn’t it, and Sylvia, too, and take care of Gregory, who wants to study medieval literature in Europe, and Ralph, who has to study in Rome and London. Where’s the money coming from?”

  “I toss and toss on the bed at night,” said Heinrich, almost in tears.

  “I can’t make enough with my Sunday jobs, and my work here, and the other jobs I have, to get the money for them,” said Edward. “It’s about time we faced facts. We need a lot of money.” He pointed at the window. “‘Delicatessen’. Why can’t it be just ‘Enger’s’? Look, there’s a store on each side of us, empty. Renting for almost nothing. We can break down the walls between us and them. Expand. Sell things people can’t get in other places in town. Enger’s! You’ve got to do more than toss and toss on the bed at night, Pa. You’ve got to do things.”

  “This America,” groaned Heinrich, wringing his hands. “It gives the young people strange thoughts, unnatural, foolish thoughts. It gives dreams. They are wrong.”