by Jim Thompson
“No, I won’t, Tom!” His buzzard’s neck was almost tangent to his body. “I won’t hold it agin you! Could I get enough to buy another place—a bigger one, maybe, that’s run down.”
“W-ell…”
“Enough to pay down on another place?”
“Well, now…”
“Tom! How much? You know about them things…”
“All right,” I said. “You got enough now to ride until spring when you can draw against your crop—if you were going to have a crop. Say that you got your loan today, that’d leave you about six-seven months to go before the mortgage fell due and you had to move…”
“Yeah? So how much…”
“Just about enough to live through those months. Three or four hundred dollars.”
“Three or—three or four hundred! B-but…”
“If you’re lucky,” I said.
And I got up and strolled back through the breezeway, and lay down again.
I waked up around noon when I smelled cornbread and blackeyed peas cooking. I’d slept soundly, and I waked up to that smell and it was like I hadn’t eaten in a week. The tension had eased out of me, and I felt starved.
My feet were in pretty good shape, about as good as they were apt to be in without a week or so’s rest. I got my shoes on and went over into the kitchen.
I guess the way I’d stood up to Pa had taken Mary’s mind off the way she’d carried on last night. Anyway, she didn’t seem skittish or embarrassed; just half-scared—only half, since he was gone—and puzzled and sullen.
What was I trying to do? Why did I act like that? I kept it up, and Pa would be giving me what-for.
“Forget it,” I said. “Let’s talk about something pleasant.”
“Like what, f’r instance?”
“Like that food. Or, better still, let’s just eat it.”
She didn’t make a move to help me, so I took a plate from the shelf and went over to the stove. Then, she said, “Oh, I’ll do it. You just set down, Tommy.”
I said, “I’ll get it,” and I did.
I took my plate outside, along with a cup of coffee, and sat down on the edge of the porch.
She came out, too, a couple of minutes later. She hesitated, waiting I guess for an invitation to sit beside me. When she didn’t get it, she went over and sat down against a post, her legs crossed in front of her on the porch. She crossed them one way, then another, smiling at me.
I went on eating. I was looking at the ground.
“You ain’t mad at me, Tommy? I was just playin’ about not gettin’ your dinner.”
I shook my head, still looking down at the ground. I wasn’t mad about the food, but I wasn’t sure I wasn’t going to be mad about something else.
“It’s a real nice day, ain’t it, Tommy? Too nice a day to be mad at anyone.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Ground’s still a little damp though. Or maybe you hadn’t noticed?”
“What’s to notice about it?”
“Tracks. Footprints. When was she here?”
Her smile froze. “I—when was who here? Ain’t nobody been here!”
I sat the cup inside my plate and put it down on the porch. I went over to her and caught her by the shoulders and jerked her up on her feet.
“When?”
“B-bout an hour ago. You was sleepin’ so good, an’…”
“But you didn’t tell her that. You told her I wasn’t here, didn’t you?”
She set her jaw, scared but stubborn. I gave her a good hard shake. I’d decided that I wasn’t really mad about not seeing Donna. It was better, as I’d decided last night, if I didn’t see her for a day or so.
But I still didn’t like what Mary had done, even a little bit. I was through with having people take care of my business, and then tell me about it afterwards if they told me at all.
“Answer me! You told her I wasn’t here?”
“I—all right, I did! You been in enough trouble without…”
“What did she say?”
“Nothin’.”
“What did she say?” I tightened my grip. “What—did—she—say?”
“Tommy!” She gasped. “You’re—lemme go, Tommy! She said she understood, that’s all. She jus’ said, ‘I understand,’ an’ then she left.”
“She didn’t leave any message? Didn’t say for me to meet her anywhere?”
“No-no—Tommy!”
I let loose of her. I figured she’d probably told the straight of things. Donna’d felt like she had to make a try at seeing me, but she’d realized, too, that it was probably a little too soon. She knew it, and I knew it.
But I sure did want her. I’d never wanted anything so much in my life. I was rested and half-way at ease in my mind for the first time in years, and I wanted…
“Y-you ain’t mad, Tommy?”
“No,” I said. “But understand me, Mary. Don’t you ever, as long as I’m here, do a thing like this again. Do you understand?”
“As long as—you’re not going away, Tommy! D-don’t go…”
“I asked you if you understood me.”
She looked up at me, her eyes searching my face. Then she nodded, smiling meekly. “Yes, Tommy,” she said. “You know I’ll do whatever you want.”
I stepped back. All at once my hands were awfully sweaty. “Well,” I said. “That’s that.”
“Tom-my.” She smiled at me, smoothing the dress down over her breasts. Pulling it down. “Don’t I always do what you want? Didn’t I tell you I would?”
“I think I’ll…” I started to say I was going to lie down again, but I changed my mind. “I think I’ll take a walk,” I said.
“I’ll go with you. It’ll be real nice down there by…”
“I’m going out and sit by the road,” I said, and I headed away from the porch fast, and I didn’t look back.
I walked down the road a piece, stepped across the ditch and sat down on the bank. I turned my hands this way and that, looking at them, not really seeing anything, of course, but just to be doing something. I scraped a little skinned spot on one of my knuckles. I picked and tugged at the beginning of a hangnail until I’d turned it into a real one. I wondered why a man’s hands feel so empty at times.
Sometimes I’ve been out somewhere, walking across a field, maybe, and my hands will get that empty feeling, and I’ll have to scoop up some clods or grab off a couple cotton bolls. I feel like I’ll go crazy if I don’t get something in my hands, just anything at all to hang onto.
I took my old knife out of my pocket, whetted it against the sole of my shoe and started whittling on a piece of stick. It wasn’t much of a knife, wouldn’t hold an edge much longer than a hog’ll hold its breath, but it was something for my hands. I tried to think, more or less to keep from thinking about other things, what’d ever become of that pretty good knife I’d had.
I’d found it like I had this one—seems like if a man keeps his eyes open, he’s almost bound to find a pocketknife lying in a field with rust all over it or aside of a fence, in the weeds, where someone’s stooped to go under, or alongside a bush where someone’s dropped his pants. There’s all sorts of places you can find knives, and I’d found that pretty good one, like I’d found this one and every other one I’ve ever had. Only it didn’t look like anything when I found it, any more than a penny’s worth of pork chops.
But I’d took it home and scrubbed ’er up good with coal-oil; and I found a little piece of ash-wood for the side where the bone handle was broken off, and I carved and scraped it down and fitted it over the rivets where the bone had been and it went on slick as owl grease. You couldn’t tell the bone from the wood side unless you looked real close; you couldn’t tell then, unless you knew. I’d bet Nate Laverty a dime he couldn’t tell, and sure enough he’d picked the wood side for bone. And I knew he didn’t have a dime, any more’n I did, so Pete had been standing there and I carried the bet to him. And of course he knew, then, which side was wood and he picked it, so Nat
e didn’t have to owe me a dime.
And then, somehow, I’d let it get away from me. And the heck of it was, I not only couldn’t remember how I might have lost it but when I’d lost it.
You see I’d found this other old knife, meanwhile, I mean the knife I had now, and I’d been carrying it around to putter at when I had the time. And then one day at school it struck me that I had my good knife for quite a spell, so I looked for it high and low but I couldn’t find a trace of it.
As near as I could recollect, I’d left it in a pair of dirty jeans when I’d changed to some clean ones; and, naturally, Mary’d chosen that day to wash. She claimed she hadn’t seen anything of it, but that didn’t mean too much. She always dumped her wash water in the privy to sweeten it, and she’d know that if she had forgot to turn my pockets out, the knife was long gone. So she wouldn’t have wanted to own up to it. But I didn’t know that was what had happened. I might have laid it down around the house, and she might have tossed it up on a shelf somewhere, not thinking about it. Or Pa might have picked it up and hid it on me, kept it in his room to use himself. Or it might have slipped down behind the seat in Donna’s car when—well, you know. Or…
I glanced up at the sun and gave a start. Then I had to laugh at myself. It was getting on toward evening. I’d spent almost the whole afternoon thinking about that blamed old knife!
Nate and Pete Laverty were coming down the road, joking and pushing each other. I stood up and brushed the grass off my pants, and went to meet them.
For a nineteen-year-old man, I’ve made a whale of a lot of mistakes. But I never made a bigger one than pushing that old knife out of my mind. If I’d done what I should have, I wouldn’t have rested until I’d dug it up. I’d have taken the house apart board by board if I’d had to. I’d—But that was if, and you know how it goes.
If the dog hadn’t stopped to scratch himself, he’d have caught the rabbit.
8
Nate said they had a note for me from Mr. Redbird, so I took it and pardoned myself to them and opened it up.
Dear Tom:
I have just finished a long talk with Miss Trumbull, and we both feel, as I am sure you will upon reflection, that you should and must return to school. Think, Tom! Despite almost overwhelming difficulties, of which I am more than aware, you have shown more promise than any other student. It has been a pleasure and a challenge to work with you. We have enjoyed four years of mutual respect, and, I hope, liking. Surely it is those years we must remember; not an unfortunate three or four minutes.
As you know, I was not responsible for Abe Toolate’s employment. But I realize now that, being acquainted with his character all too well, I should have insisted on ending it—as I did successfully end it this morning. The situation was inevitably open to unpleasant interpretation.
I needed no proof of your honesty. Nonetheless, because it was the easiest way out, because I felt it necessary to appease a known thief, I asked you to tell me you were honest. Under the same circumstances, I might myself have said things I would later regret.
But don’t think I’m letting you completely off, young man! I have a stack of Science I papers this high for you to grade, and I want the work done right, understand me?… As if you’d do it any other way.
I’ll look for you in the morning, Tom.
Sincerely,
David Redbird
I finished reading, and tears were starting to come into my eyes. And I just didn’t see how I could go back—right away, anyhow, until things were settled. But I could go and see him and Miss Trumbull, and…
I looked up.
Nate and Pete were grinning at me.
“What’s so funny?” I said.
Pete snickered and gave Nate a nudge. “Looks pretty lively, don’t he? Couldn’t hardly tell he’d been out dancin’ all night.”
“Yeah,” said Nate, and I could see the orneriness sticking out of him and Pete. They were like that, slow to pick up a grudge. They’d swallow something and spit it up at you later. “Yeah,” he said, “but he’s a pretty lively fella. Got a sweater to keep him hotted up.”
“Now look.” I said. “I told you yesterday that I spoke out of turn. What…”
“Kind of spoke a little out last night, too, didn’t you?”
“What do you mean?” I said. But I knew, of course. The whole town, everyone at school, was probably laughing about me.
“How’s your feet?” said Nate. “How they feel, big boy?”
They busted out laughing, haw-hawing in my face; and I tried to laugh with them, but it wasn’t any good.
“Look at ’im!” Pete haw-hawed. “Looks like he’s been chawin’ persimmons!”
“Chawin’ grass, that’s what he done!” cackled Nate. “Fella, why’nt you tell us how them feet…”
That was as far as he got, because just about that time I whaled off and kicked him on the shin. And Pete made a dive for me and I kicked him, too.
They went white and silent, their chests slumping with the pain. Then they both made for me at once, and I slammed them both. I gave them each a short stiff-arm, my fists doubled. And they grunted and went down in the road. They staggered to their feet, waving their arms wildly, and I slammed them again. I knocked them down in the road a second time, and a third—and that trip they stayed down.
I tore up Mr. Redbird’s letter and threw it down on top of them. I stared at them, panting, hoping they’d razz me just a little bit more—praying to God that they wouldn’t. Because I didn’t want to stomp them to death, and I knew I would if they said anything.
They didn’t. Maybe they couldn’t, or maybe they were afraid to. Anyway, they just lay there, their faces as yellowish white as their meal-sack shirts. And I turned and walked away from there fast.
I almost ran toward the house. I went into my bedroom, slamming the door, and threw myself down on the bed. I shivered. My head felt hot as fire, but I couldn’t stop shaking. It was like I had fever and chills. I thought, I’ve had enough. No one else better pull anything.
I hammered my fists against the mattress. I wished now that I’d given Nate and Pete a real punching. That was what I needed—to pull the anger and shame out of myself and pass it on to someone else. Now, though, it was all corked up inside of me, and…
“Tom”—Mary’s hand closed over my forearm and turned me on my side. “What’s the matter, Tommy?”
“Go away,” I said.
“I ain’t going ’way till you tell me.”
“You’d better,” I said. “You’d better go away fast, Mary.”
“Why?” She said it why-ee?, teasing-like, and sat down on the edge of the bed. Her hip was almost against my face, and I could smell her—the musky, wanting-it smell. “Why-ee, Tommy?”
I sat up and gave her a push. But she was sitting solid. She was a lot more steady than I was; and I guess I didn’t push very hard. She was something to strike back at, you see. Or strike with. It seemed like if I did it to her, I’d be getting back at them.
“You’d better go,” I said. “Pa’ll be here pretty soon.”
“Huh-uh.”
“I’m telling you, Mary. If you don’t get out of here, I’ll—I’ll…”
“Yes?” And she dragged it out, yes-ss?
I lay back down on the pillows. I’d told her, hadn’t I? I’d told her and all the others, but they wouldn’t leave me alone. Now I was through talking.
She stood up, smiling at me. She kept on smiling, never taking her eyes away from mine, as she stepped out of first one shoe then the other.
She pulled her dress down over one shoulder. She eased the other arm out of its sleeve, then slid the dress down past her hips and stepped out of it. There wasn’t anything on underneath.
She’d had it all planned, got herself all ready, before she’d come into my room.
“Move over, Tommy,” she said. And I moved over.
“Now,” she said. And she stretched out by me. And…
Up until then she
’d been all smiling and cool and sure of herself. But then her arms went around me, and her body swung in against mine. And if there was ever a crazy woman, she was it.
All at once, all at the same time, she was laughing and crying and giggling and sobbing, biting and clawing and petting at me. And I don’t mind admitting I was scared as all heck. I forgot all about myself, how sick-angry I’d been. All I could think of was getting away from her; but it was too late then, of course.
And after that first minute I stopped wanting to get away.
It didn’t last much longer than a minute. Then she fell back on the pillows, her body heaving and quivering like she’d run ten miles.
I pushed myself up on my knees and slid off the bed. And I wasn’t breathing so easy myself.
Five seconds before, I couldn’t have been dragged away from her. Now I felt like I’d gag and start puking if she so much as laid a hand on me.
She was smiling again, narrow-eyed, trying to pull me back to her with her eyes.
“Tommy… That was good, wasn’t it?”
“Get up and get dressed, Mary,” I said. “Come on. Start moving.”
“You like better’n her? Say you do, Tommy, an’ I’ll get up.”
“Suit yourself about what you do,” I said. “Stay there and let Pa find you.”
“Wait, Tommy! Let’s…”
But I didn’t wait. I walked out of the room and out of the house, I drew a fresh bucket of water from the well and sloshed it over my head and face. Then I dried myself on the porch towel and combed my hair and sat down on the edge of the porch.
I heard Mary clomping around in the kitchen, building up the supper fire. It began to get dark and she lit the lamp; and I could smell the coffee coming to a boil. But she didn’t come out and she didn’t call to me.
I almost wished she would because I was beginning to get hungry, and I’d’ve asked for a biscuit or something if she’d given me an opening. But she didn’t, so I stayed where I was and kept quiet myself.
