Spencer's Mountain

by Earl Hamner, Jr.

  Once when they found a broad rock that split the little stream they sat for a while and rested.

  “This is the forest primeval,” recited Claris, “the murmuring pines and the hemlocks.”

  “It sure is,” said Clay-Boy. “Plenty wild.”

  “It’s just as if there were just the two of us left in the world. Everybody else gone off somewhere,” said Claris.

  “Just us and the wildcats,” said Clay-Boy.

  “Are there any of those up here?” asked Claris with a shudder.

  “Maybe,” he said. “But they’re nothing to be afraid of. Willie Beasley killed one one time and I saw it. Wasn’t much bigger than a good-sized tom cat.”

  “What would you do if a wildcat jumped down here on this rock right this minute?”

  “I’d say ‘Go way, cat. I’m resting.’”

  “No, I mean honestly.”

  “There isn’t any point in talking about it because it isn’t going to happen.”

  “All the same, I’m scared.” They were lying on their backs looking up at the patch of blue sky visible through the branches above. Claris moved a fraction closer to Clay-Boy and feeling her near him he brought his arm over and around her protectively. Just as quickly she moved away indignantly.

  “Now, don’t go trying anything like that with me!” she exclaimed.

  “Like what?”

  “Like what you were trying to do just then.”

  “What was I trying to do?”

  “You were trying to touch me and you know it.”

  Clay-Boy rose with equal indignation, but she did not give him time to speak.

  “Just don’t get any ideas,” she warned. She got up from the rock and stepped out into the little brook again. Clay-Boy followed after her, sullen and angry that she had mistaken his protective gesture for anything more than what it was intended to be.

  “Hey,” he called suddenly. Claris stopped and looked back at him. “I’ll go first,” he said, “you follow me.” Obediently she waited while he walked abreast of her, and then as he was about to go past her, Claris reached out and touched his arm and he stopped.

  “I’m sorry I screamed at you,” she said.

  “I didn’t try what you thought I did,” he said.

  “I’m a little jumpy today,” she said.

  “It’s all right,” said Clay-Boy. With Clay-Boy in the lead they continued on up the mountain. Once he stopped and pointed off through the trees.

  “If you’ll look right through that clearing in the trees where the wood trail turns you’ll see a stump,” he said.

  “What’s so wonderful about a stump?” asked Claris.

  “It’s where I killed the deer,” said Clay-Boy.

  “Let’s go over there,” said Claris. “I’d like to see it.”

  Clay-Boy had not visited the spot since he had killed the deer there. Now as he stepped into the edge of the clearing he felt as if he were in some haunted place. The trees were in leaf now, and trillium and lady’s slippers grew where he had plunged the deer’s antlers into the snow. Remembering, a shiver went down his back and when he looked at Claris he found her gazing at him curiously.

  “What?” he said.

  “What are you thinking about?” she asked.

  “Oh,” he said, “That story my grandfather used to tell.”

  “Do you believe it?” she asked.

  “Do you?”

  “Something’s happened to you since last year.”

  “What?”

  “You’re not a boy any more.”

  “It took you a long time to notice that,” he said.

  “No, it didn’t,” she said. “I just like to tease you.”

  “Come on,” he said, “Let’s look at Daddy’s house.”

  They did not return to the creek bed but followed the old wood trail that led to the summit of the mountain. The skeleton of the house Clay was building remained as he had left it. Claris walked about on the floor joists and examined the exterior studs which would soon be ready for rafters while Clay-Boy checked on all his father’s tools and equipment and found them intact, just as Clay had left them.

  When he was satisfied that all was in order, Clay-Boy called to Claris and they started back down the mountain.

  “You want to see an Indian mound?” asked Clay-Boy.

  When Claris agreed that she would, he led her off the path into a field where the Indian mound was located. There was in the field the quiet of remote places where people seldom come. This field was broad and filled with high grass and bordered with pine trees. There was little sound and not much movement either, only the gently swaying grass as the wind passing through and the occasional swift flight of some bird disturbed the wild and private silence of the place.

  Following a path that Clay-Boy knew, they came to a place where the tall grass had been flattened down. Clay-Boy said, “Some deer spent the night here. That’s where they bedded down, there where the grass is all bent and broken.”

  Claris ran into the small bowl of flat grass and threw herself down into it.

  “It’s still warm from their bodies,” she said.

  “No, it’s not,” he said. “They’ve been gone since sunup. It’s warm from the sun.”

  “It’s nice,” Claris said. “Come try it.”

  Clay-Boy came to where she was and sat down beside her. Her eyes were closed and she lay completely still. The aroma of the crushed grass and the earth and the sun-drenched air rose up around them, and for a long time they lay with their eyes closed and the warm noon sun caressing them.

  “Just think,” said Claris. “Only a few hours ago some wild beautiful thing lay here.”

  “I hope they didn’t have fleas,” said Clay-Boy.

  “Oh, if you’re going to talk like that, don’t talk,” said Claris crossly.

  “All I said was…”

  “Don’t repeat it,” interrupted Claris. “I thought you had a soul. I thought you were my wild witch boy of the mountains and all you can think about at a very important moment like this is fleas.”

  “It wasn’t all I was thinking,” said Clay-Boy.

  “Oh, I know what else you were thinking,” she said. “It’s never out of your mind, is it?”

  “What?”

  “You’re always thinking about it. I can tell. I can read minds and I’ve known all along you brought me up here just to try something.”

  Clay-Boy was wordless. Suddenly he realized that it could very well happen. He had dreamed of it, imagined it, anticipated it, yearned for it, and now it seemed that the mysterious and impossible thing could actually happen. He flushed with the pleasure of having, without really planning it, arranged the occasion so artfully. He knew he must make his next move with the utmost care. Too sudden a word might frighten or startle her and ruin his chances forever. While he searched about in his mind for just the right word to use, Claris spoke again.

  “If you could be anything in the world you wanted to be, what would you be?”

  “I’d like to be rich so I could go to college,” Clay-Boy answered. “What would you be?”

  “I’d be a nudist,” Claris replied lazily.

  “I guess that would be kind of fun,” agreed Clay-Boy.

  “I’d go off somewhere to the end of the world, some place without fences or people where nobody could see me and just let the sun and the wind seep right down into the marrow of my bones. I think that’s what God intended us to be anyway. I’d be one right now if you weren’t here.”

  “I could leave you alone for a while if you want,” replied Clay-Boy.

  “Do,” said Claris. She sat up in the grass and stared at him. “What are you waiting for?”

  Clay-Boy moved out of the grass where the deer had slept and into the path.

  “You could use a little sun yourself,” she called as he moved away.

  Clay went a few yards and when he came to a turnoff he stepped off the path and into a sunny clearing beside a scrub pine. Fir
st he peered up toward where Claris was but the foliage was too thick and he could not see her. Next he proceeded to unbutton his shirt, fighting all along with his straitlaced Baptist conscience. It was only when he made a halfhearted promise to himself that he would only get out of his clothes and right back into them again that he allowed himself to remove his shirt and trousers and toss them over the pine tree. Standing there in his underwear and his shoes and socks he felt uncomfortable and conscious of the picture he would present if someone should happen to come by.

  Discarding his undershirt and shorts he felt even more uncomfortable, and it was only when he shed his shoes and socks that he began to enjoy the sensation of being absolutely naked in the noonday sun.

  Cautiously he stepped out of the clearing onto the path again and there above him, her back to him, was Claris. She was loosening the coils of hair at the back of her head, running her hands through them to shake them loose. Clay-Boy could hardly breathe.

  When she turned he expected her to run screaming back into the grass. Instead, she continued to run her hands through her hair and asked in a half-teasing, half-serious voice, “What do you think of me?”

  “I think you are beautiful,” Clay-Boy heard himself say.

  “You’re not. You’re all bony and knobby-kneed and your neck is red and the rest of you is white as flour.” She gave him another critical look and with a sudden surge of modesty his hands went down to cover himself.

  Suddenly Claris ran at him and pushed him so violently that he fell backward into the grass. When he got up she was running through the grass away from him. He watched her for a moment and then ran after her. She did not look back, seeming not to know or to care if he were behind her.

  When at last he caught up with her, he reached out and touched her shoulder. She gave a sharp cry and spun around to face him. She met him in the full force of his running and it carried them with their arms around each other to the grass.

  ***

  The shadows of the late afternoon sun were lengthening across the field when they returned to where they had left their clothes. Clay-Boy dressed quickly in the spot where he had left his. They were hot from the sun and it was only when he was dressed that he remembered how sensitive his skin was to the sun, but it was too late now and his skin began to chafe and grow even hotter under the sun-warmed clothes. Nevertheless he felt pleased and possessive and full of love as he came up the path to where he had left Claris.

  For the first time since he had known her she was shy with him, and she offered no resistance when he put his arms about her and held her to him.

  “Tell me again that you love me,” she said.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “I just like to hear it,” she said.

  “I love you,” he said. Hand in hand they walked down the mountain. Claris chattered like a jaybird all the way home and Clay-Boy listened, silent, amused, indulgent, inflated with love and ownership of that most precious possession—his girl.

  It was only when they came back into the village that they let go of each other’s hands; at the gate to her father’s house Clay-Boy wanted to kiss her again, but he did not for fear her father might be watching out of the window.

  “I hope I’m not pregnant,” said Claris, looking up at him impishly.

  “What made you say that?” he asked, his voice betraying the horror he suddenly felt.

  “Good night, lover,” she said and went running into the house.

  When he came to his own home Clay-Boy found his father sitting on the front porch and he reported that the house on the mountain was in good order and then Clay-Boy went directly to his room. What had happened, he felt, must clearly show in his face and he was not yet ready to confront his mother.

  He delayed going to supper that night until his mother had called him three times, and when he came to the table he had no appetite.

  “What’s the matter with you?” his mother asked.

  “Nothing, Mama,” he said.

  “Somethen’s the matter with you,” said Olivia. “You’re all flushed and looks like you’re comen down with somethen to me. Let me feel your forehead and see if you’ve got a fever.”

  Olivia felt his forehead and he flinched, feeling that what troubled him was so obvious that she might guess what it was merely by touching his head.

  “Just feel a little sunburnt,” she said and placed a heaping plate of food in front of him. “I been keeping your supper warm for you. Now eat.”

  Clay-Boy made himself eat the food, hoping that would avert their suspicions. As soon as he could, he excused himself from the table and went into the bathroom.

  His father might have guessed part of the truth for after Clay-Boy left the room, Clay said to Olivia, “I think that boy’s in love.”

  Olivia grunted despairingly. “That little girl will be gone in a week or two and I’ll be glad to see it. You know what she said to me? Sitting there at the table she asked me if my uterus was back in place yet from having the babies. Where she ever learned such things in the first place is beyond me.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “I told her it was none of her business. She’s always talken like that, and the things she must have put in Clay-Boy’s head God only knows.”

  In the bathroom Clay-Boy was applying Noxzema to the more painful portions of his sunburned skin when the door opened abruptly and Shirley started into the room.

  “Get out of here!” he shouted.

  “I just want to use the bathroom,” said Shirley indignantly. “You aren’t using it. Why can’t I?”

  “Oh God,” moaned Clay-Boy, “can’t I ever have any privacy around here?”

  “All right then,” said Shirley, “but the next time I’m using it, don’t you holler at me to hurry up.”

  She slammed the door and marched in the kitchen where she announced, “Clay-Boy’s the craziest thing.”

  “Well, honey,” said Olivia, “you ought not to walk in the bathroom when somebody else is usen it. Just wait your turn.”

  “He’s putten Noxzema on his fanny,” said Shirley.

  “What in God’s name is he doing that for?” Asked Olivia. “Clay, you go in there and see what he’s doen. He won’t let me in the bathroom with him any more. Says he’s too big. You go in there and see what that boy is doen.”

  When Clay walked into the bathroom he could see that even though Clay-Boy had smeared the white salve over his buttocks they were still a bright and angry red.

  “Let me give you a hand there, son,” he said, and taking the jar of Noxzema he covered the places on Clay-Boy’s back which the boy had not been able to reach.

  “You want to talk about anythen, son,” Clay asked after a while.

  “What do you mean, Daddy?” Clay-Boy asked innocently.

  “Son,” said Clay, “If a man’s been away all day long with a girl and comes home with his backsides all sunburned, that don’t mean but one thing, in my way of seein’ it.”

  Clay-Boy turned and faced his father. He could not tell if his father was angry or pleased.

  “I’d appreciate it, Daddy,” he said, “if you wouldn’t let on to Mama.”

  “I don’t see no point in it,” said Clay. “There ain’t a damn thing anybody can do about it now. Except next time, if I was you, I’d try to find a shady place.”

  Claris appeared quite dramatically a few evenings later while the Spencers were at supper. Most of the summer she had worn blue jeans and a shirt, but tonight she had on a suit and was wearing high heels.

  “Hi there, little girl,” said Clay, “sit down and have some supper.”

  “Thank you, but I really can’t stay. Daddy’s waiting for me down at the front gate. He’s in a terrible hurry, but I just couldn’t go without saying good-by to my favorite family.”

  “You’re leaven early this year,” said Olivia, only half-concealing her relief.

  “Yes,” said Claris mysteriously. “Something’s come up.”

 
“I always use you for my almanac to tell me when summer starts and when it’s over. Looks like with you goen back to Washington, D.C., now, we’re in for an early frost.”

  Claris gave everybody a hug and a kiss except Clay-Boy. When she came around the table to where he was sitting she said, “You can walk with me down to the car if you want to.” He rose and followed her out of the door. In the front yard he pulled her over behind a forsythia bush where they could not be seen.

  “What’s this all about?” he asked.

  “Something wonderful is going to happen,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I don’t want to spoil the surprise now,” she said. “I’ve got to wait until I’m sure. I’ll write to you.”

  “I hate to see you go.”

  “Do you love me?” she said.

  “I really do,” said Clay-Boy and took her in his arms.

  “It’s going to be so fine,” she said.

  “What?” he asked.

  “When we’re together always,” she said, then broke out of his arms and ran to the waiting car.

  ***

  Within three days after Claris left Clay-Boy received word from his Aunt Frances, the postmistress, that a letter was waiting for him and that it could be picked up at the post office.

  He opened the letter with pleasure and read it with mounting horror.

  Dear,

  You may wonder why I do not address you as “Dear Clay-Boy” or “Dear Lover” or “Dear One,” but all those names merely limit our relationship so that when I call you “Dear” it is to imply that you are dear to me and also that you are Dear Lover, Dear Clay-Boy and Dear One.

  My return home was quite dramatic. I found Mother quite inebriated entertaining oceans of guests and they welcomed me into the circle and gave me sips of champagne which I adore. Of this I tired quickly and transported myself to the kitchen where I threatened Hazel I would tell everyone about her past if she didn’t give me a full glass which she did poste haste, I can assure you. Afterwards feeling quite gay, I rejoined the party and entertained them for hours with anecdotes about life and love in them thar hills. I was divine.

  The above paragraph is an abominable lie. What really happened was that Mother met me (God, how can I lie so?) at the station and was quite severe with me for not having written all summer and scolded me endlessly for my fingernails not being Borax clean. She says I look “womanly” and I was dying to tell her about us and of course I will have to if anything develops. At the moment my belly is still dismally flat but then it’s still too early to know.