They sat down to supper with Harold quiet and cautious. He had been punished for something and Dan felt like being sure he had deserved it. “What’s wrong with him?” he asked.
Laura looked at Harold, waiting for him to speak up and declare how bad he had been and just what he had got for it. “He got a spanking,” she said. Harold squirmed. Laura straightened him up with a look and said, “He got hisself a bell and went around ringing it all day. I asked him a hundred times to stop it but he wouldn’t. I was jumping out of my skin all day long every five minutes thinking it was you and something bad had happened.”
Dan threw his knife on his plate with a clatter. “Jesus Christ! Did you have it on your mind every minute that I was going to sound off on that damn thing!”
Laura bounced in her seat as if he had hit her; a slow hard pinch started in around the edges of her eyes. “Well, yes,” she said, picking out all the bruises and breaks and bumps up and down him, “I did!”
VIII
Dan sat hunched up on the front porch, wandering wearily back and forth between the two minds he had about everything. He had sat there, just breathing, ever since they left, and now it was hard to believe that in the house behind his back anything had happened for years, or again, it seemed something had happened all right, the last thing that ever would, and now the house lay dead. Laura, she was down behind the barn, crying, he supposed, and one minute he would reckon he ought to stir himself and go out and try to comfort her, and the next minute figure he had just better keep out of her sight—not rousing himself to do either and not caring the next minute one way or the other, just wishing he could keep out of his own sight.
She was only going to take the boy over to her place until Laura had a little more time to spare him, the grandmother said, and Laura had taken no exception, even agreed with a tired nod that she hadn’t given him much time of late and that Harold looked it every bit. It was not time she hadn’t given him—though she hadn’t given him that, either—and she knew it wasn’t time or attention that his grandmother was thinking he needed. The old woman looked the boy over, tallying all the hollow spots that a few square meals would fill out. Her man was torn—strutting around throwing it up to Dan that he couldn’t support his only child, pleased that he could, had figured for years that sooner or later he would have to, then suddenly fearing they might get to thinking he was better able to do it than he wanted them to think. Then he would pull a thin face to show how pinched he was going to be with his new responsibility.
Laura had followed them out to the buggy, wanting to say, We’ll have you back soon, Harold, don’t you worry. And afraid he would act as if that were the only thing that worried him. Suddenly she wanted to tell him that it wasn’t any of her doing, that she wasn’t that way, that there wasn’t anything wrong with her—because he did look at her as though, since she was staying behind, the same thing must be wrong with her. Instead, settling him on the seat, not thinking, she said, “Drive careful, Papa.”
She watched them move away and, turning, shoved the gate shut and watched it fall back in exhaustion. As she walked up the path her words scraped dryly in her mind: be careful, Papa. Be careful, careful, be careful. She came to the front steps and stood looking at Dan as she would at an old no-good hound dog lolling on the porch, then turned and walked around the house.
IX
That three acres of truck was not going to make a stand; they both saw that and so did Mr. Johnson. He hadn’t got it in early enough and hadn’t been able to work it like he should have, it had been too hot and dry or too cold and damp and it never got proper spraying and the bugs got at it and it wasn’t a very good piece of land anyway and if anybody needed any more reason, well, it was his, and that ought to be enough.
They clung as long as they could, holding out against what they knew without saying was their only alternative. But a day came when the last piece of salt pork spread its weak stain through the last pot of beans, when the flour barrel was turned end up and dusted out on a newspaper, when you could just about see the blue flowers right through the pancakes on your plate, then, as if he had timed it to the last mouthful, Laura’s papa pulled up outside the limp gate in his sway-backed wagon behind his draughty mules and sat up on the high spring seat looking down as though he might have revived things no end just by spitting on that ruined soil and wouldn’t do it—which was a lie; he was so dried up himself he couldn’t have brought up a nourishing spit. His face looked eroded and was covered with a maze of capillaries like exposed roots. On top of this a tangle of dry hair drifted like tumbleweed.
Behind him, piled among their battered belongings, Laura and Dan rode away without a backward glance.
He was hard up all right, Laura’s papa, always had been, always would be, but his actual condition was never so low as you’d guess from the meal he gave them that first night. You would have thought he expected a bill collector for company. And he was upset that Laura’s mama had put on such a good expensive-looking dress to welcome her daughter home and he found a way to remark two or three times about it being her only one. What it was was her very best guinea-hen print and she sat puffed up in it all evening as if she had an egg but wouldn’t lay it. As her husband offered the Lord his thanks for this and all His blessings—with a look at Dan—a scandalized look sneaked out of the corner of the old woman’s eye and stole upward. She wanted Him and the others as well to know she hadn’t forgot having had more in her day to thank Him for.
Dan guessed he’d never had more and they were all, it seemed, anxious to assure him that he never had. It looked as if her family had not only known him all his life but known him better than anyone else, better than he knew himself. They could recall accidents he had had and bring them clearly back to him, things he hadn’t thought of for years, and now he supposed he had deliberately tried to forget them and had run for years from admitting this mark that was set on him, it seemed, the day he was born—and rolled out of his crib and got a knot on his head, the old man swore, and swore not to be mean, but you could tell from the look on his face, in genuine astonishment, it all added together so perfectly.
So perfectly it left not a minute’s doubt in the mind of any of them that he was an absolute leper. Laura got tired of seeing him take it without any fight, but his time was taken up. Something would poke him awake in the morning, urge him to gulp down his coffee, so he could get started doing nothing and thinking nothing, and the effort of it had him worn out by evening. Everything everybody said or did was meant in some way for him, he felt, but it all had so little to do with him. Sometimes he felt like speaking up and getting in a dig himself at himself when they were all having such a good time running him down.
Laura believed he wasn’t taking his position seriously enough. Instead of resenting her folks’ charity as she had at first, she had come to feel they were being pretty nice to do all they had and that Dan might be decent enough to be grateful. He wasn’t. They were getting their money’s worth; they hadn’t had anybody they could take as much out on in a long time. He had given them something more in common than they could ever have agreed upon amongst them. The bunch of them got along together now like fingers in a mitten.
At first Laura was always prophesying rain. If her papa was kept home then Dan wouldn’t feel quite so bad that he wasn’t out working. When it did rain she would pray for it to clear and get the old man back to the fields and out of the house where he couldn’t torment Dan. The old man had the same problem rain or shine: Ought he to let them know how well the crops were coming for him—compared to some he could mention—or let them know what a lean winter they were in for around his table? He chose always to look worn to a frazzle; whichever way it turned out he had done his share and more.
Dan didn’t care whether it rained or shone and he could see before long that Laura wasn’t so worried one way or the other any more. Even with all she had to put up with from her mama, complaining about her cooking and the way she cleaned house and
the grease she left around the sink and the way Harold dirtied his overalls so fast, with all that, Laura couldn’t forget that she wasn’t out forking hay or shaking out sods, couldn’t feel any other way except that that was over now and she had come back home.
On the morning he was killed Dan woke earlier, struck with the thought he’d sooner spend the day with the old man than with the women. He went out to work a month before the date the doctor had set. He had expected it, but still it hurt when Laura didn’t even try to stop him. She had seen him limp for so long she’d forgot there was a time when he didn’t, couldn’t believe a time might ever come when he wouldn’t. He’d gone out too early before and the leg hadn’t healed but it probably wouldn’t have, anyway, and if it had something else as bad would have happened, if not worse.
How funny it was, Dan thought, that he didn’t mind the old man now. It was clear that the old man despised him, and so it was no surprise to see that cowbell Laura had made him carry on Johnson’s place hung under the mower that the old man meant for him to use. What did surprise Dan was that he didn’t care. The old man stood by itching for a quarrel over it; Dan didn’t have the energy.
He started in at one corner of the field and mowed three laps around. The steady clatter of the machine soothed him. With some surprise he had about decided that nothing out of the way was likely to happen when, near the end of his fourth time around, the mower bumped over a rock and he was thrown in front of the blade. The pointed runners held him spitted and the mules, taking fright, dragged him fifty feet before the spikes tore out and rolled over him.
He fought hard against coming to and half-conscious he knew he was badly hurt. He thought of what it was going to be like, dragging in bloody from head to toe, and he said to himself: Why can’t I really have a good one once and for all and get it over with? He opened his eyes and looked at himself in disgust. Now, he thought, I’m going to catch hell sure enough. He started poking around in him for the strength to get up, but a wave of pain and sadness bent his will like the wind coming over the grass. If only he could just lie there and not have to go. But supposing they found him like this—that would be worse than if he dragged himself in. He tried to rise. But the grass came up cool and crisp, rustling like a fresh bedsheet, and tucked him in. What shall I dream about, he asked, and heard himself answer: You’re already dreaming.
Then a voice like Mr. Johnson’s said, “Are you going to lie there all day?” “No, sir, I’m going to get right up now and support my family.”
He rolled over and groaned and opened his eyes. He could see the team a little ways off and was thankful for that bell hanging there. It cheered him so he got to his elbows and once he had he took a look at himself and laughed. If he could do that then he damned sure wasn’t going to ring that bell. It would just be giving the old man too much to crow about. He looked again and wondered if he could have reached the bell anyhow, for there it went dancing all over the field.
Then Dan watched himself get up, get the bell and begin swinging it with all his might, pointing at the body on the ground as though he wanted everybody to come see what he had gone and done with himself now.
Sister
SISTER CAME down to the kitchen very early to attend Queenie through her labor. She found the other cats squatting in the shadows, solemn and stiff, while Queenie held the center of the room. Each of Sister’s cats was temperamental; Queenie, the oldest, was the most difficult. Sister was touched by her moans and stricken looks, but she reminded herself that Queenie did like to have an audience. What a fuss she made!
“Queenie, Queenie,” Sister chided. But her voice was soft as a purr. In each of her cats what she loved was just the weakness in its character.
The other cats drifted to the door where some sat and some paced up and down, waiting to be let out. Sister comforted each in turn. “No, no. There is nothing you can do to help. But don’t worry—Queenie is going to be all right.”
She offered her warm milk, ground beef, a raw egg. But Queenie wanted only to lie in the sunroom, wrapped around herself, down behind the potted oleander.
Yet Sister felt she wanted company. She regretted scolding her yesterday for stealing Zee-Zee’s bone.
The whole house seemed to draw near to wait for Queenie’s pains to begin. Without the rest of her cats, Sister grew lonely and fretful. But she reminded herself of her responsibility. Queenie depended on her. Sister was always grateful for one more way in which she might be useful. It was gratitude—not pride—she felt in knowing that she could do more things than most girls of fourteen. She thought of her cousins Enid and Evaline and felt sorry for them; they missed so much enjoyment, being useless.
Queenie’s labor soon began. Sister knew to keep away from her. The old cat clawed the floor; she grunted; she drew herself into a knot and rolled over and over on her back. With each of her spasms the fur stood up along her spine. Though Sister tried to sit still, before long she was biting her nails.
The first two kittens were each dark gray with darker stripes. But Sister soon found the ways to tell them apart. The third, which cried loudest, was paler. That one, like its mother, had a black ring around one eye.
“Well, that makes how many now?” asked Father as soon as he was told. His egg was boiling too long on the range, his toast burning, his coffee percolating too fast, and his corn flakes getting soggy, while in the guest bathroom off the kitchen he was nicking himself right and left with the razor. Busy with Queenie, Sister had forgotten his breakfast until he was already downstairs. Now, hurrying to make it, she also had to mix food for the mob of impatient cats gathered under the kitchen window.
The food for her cats had to be just so, neither too hot nor too cold. It made a heavy panful, which she balanced on one hand while opening the door with the other, trying at the same time to keep the cats back with her foot. But, as usual, two or three slipped in, and unable to find their food, went scampering around the kitchen.
Sister divided the food fairly among six plates, gently holding off the cats.
Father smelled the toast burning and rushed from the bathroom, his face covered with lather which here and there was stained pink with blood. The stray cats scurried. There was a howl; he had stepped on one’s tail. Exasperated, he dropped his arms. He wanted to curse but denied himself; he started to complain but words failed him.
He had managed to calm himself when he sat down to breakfast. Sister was especially quiet to keep from irritating him. She set things before him with the least commotion possible.
“How many does that make now?” he asked.
Sister busied herself at the sink and pretended she had not heard.
“Hmmm?”
She studied the tone of his voice; it did not seem reproachful. He smiled.
But he could not help shaking his head when Sister said, “Nineteen.”
All he could do was make his old joke. “With all these cats, there soon won’t be room for a mouse in this house.”
Father pushed aside his corn flakes and reached for his eggcup. The smell he had been trying to ignore overcame him. Of all animals, cats smelled the worst! He laid his spoon down in disgust. He turned to say, “Good heavens, Sister! If you must keep them inside, can’t you at least try to housebreak a few of them?” But as usual he found her gone without a sound.
The dog barked at a car coming up the drive. Walter looked at his watch. The kitchen clock was slow! Paul, his brother, came in, pleased to find him late. They took turns driving down to the train. On mornings when Walter was upset and cross, Paul took pains to be jovial and loud; let Walter try to feel good and Paul was surly all the way to the city. I do believe, Walter told himself now, that Paul enjoys coming in here and smelling this smell. To think of my having spent all the money I have on this place, only to have it smelled up like this by a pack of cats, must give him a great deal of pleasure. He knows it’s a better house than his, and otherwise better kept. No doubt he thinks I haven’t the nerve to set my foot d
own and put a stop to it, for he expects me to be intimidated by Sister as he is by Evaline.
Thinking like this would sometimes drive Walter to speak harshly to Sister. But usually he behaved, when Paul came, as though he smelled nothing, and would find a way of repeating what a pleasure it was to have many cats in the house.
No one else, Sister knew, felt about cats as she did. Someone might come to, though, someday, if she kept trying to make them see how nice cats are. Of those for whom she had hope, Uncle Paul seemed the most likely. Not because he already liked cats somewhat—he paid less attention to them than many people, in fact—but because he was the only person who often called her Jane, instead of Sister.
“Jane,” he said, “what is that?” looking into the sunroom and peering at the box from which came cries and the sucking sounds of Queenie’s kittens. Cocking an eye, he looked at Sister as though he had caught her doing something mischievous, but was prepared to be amused by it.
“Would you like to see them?” she asked. If only he would hold one and watch them feed, she was sure he would love cats forever.
Father said, “Sister, don’t annoy Uncle Paul with your cats. Everyone is not like us, you know, when it comes to cats.”
Sister was left standing. Uncle Paul had turned away, his interest lost.
Preceded by a loud yawn, Edmond sauntered in.
“Ah,” said Walter. “Look who decided to get up.”
“Dad,” said Edmond, “you won’t by any chance be near a bicycle shop today in the city, will you?”
“So,” said Walter. “So that’s what got you out of bed before I was gone.” He lowered his eyes and said resignedly, “I might have known.”
For one of Walter’s great pleasures was pretending that Edmond had no feeling for him. Sighing and rolling his eyes at Paul to show how mistreated he was gave him intense satisfaction. Paul would give the world for a son to tyrannize him.
The Collected Stories of William Humphrey Page 6
