But then, just as suddenly as it came, he would abandon the sad, faraway note that had crept into his voice. After all, he’d shout: it’s not like this is Amer-r-r-r-rica! Here, we all have to work for a living! Which was something he had once heard said by a Frenchman in Paris, who rolled his r’s in a way his father could imitate. Then Douglas’s mother, her needle driving itself into the solitariness of its singular, fathomless hole, would say (so quickly it might easily have been between a still-uncured case of hiccups that she spoke), Arthur, really, that’s enough now. The boy, and his father would look up, surprised.
Enough? As though he didn’t recognize the word. He’d repeat it again, quietly to himself. Enough. Then louder. Enough! Oh, is it? My dear! Is it? he’d ask. My putteet shair-ee? He would look abstracted and thoughtful, as though the question as to whether it was or was not “enough” were a mathematical problem to which some absolute and unwavering answer might still be found. His face would take on an expression of genuine concern—as when he had lifted the book from Douglas’s hands and discovered the title to be something he either had or had not read. But in another moment he would begin to laugh, at first softly to himself. It would start almost like a tickle at the back of his throat, but then it would get bigger and bigger until he nearly choked on it.
Marry him for his pension! he would roar out, finally—between belts of laughter. Who’s the sorriest of us now!
He was—it seemed—genuinely delighted by the words, and from time to time would scoop Douglas or on rare occasions even his mother up, so that her mending went flying (abandoned, permanently unfinished) to the floor, and steered one or the other of them around the little room in a sort of tuneless waltz, which kept time with his repeated exclamation: His pension! Yes! That will do! Until he collapsed, exhausted, and his mother was able, her small hand under his broad shoulder, to steer him to the adjacent room (really only a closet, at the back of the house), where they slept. She would give Douglas a single, final glance over her shoulder before she disappeared. In fact, she did not really look at him—just as he had not, all evening, looked at her. There was never any point, that is, in which his mother’s eyes made contact with his own. She only tossed her head in his direction—but he understood. That he was to do as he had been told some hours before: make his own way to bed, and pray heartily to God for forgiveness for whatever sins he or his father had committed that had brought the Holy Ghost once more—as though, indeed, he were one of them—into that house.
—
THAT LAST SPRING WAS AN UNUSUALLY WET ONE, SO IT WAS NOT UNTIL the second week of May that all the corn had been planted. At the end of the week his father was paid, and when he was he went into town and came back with a lot of new things, which he laid out on the kitchen table. Everything was perfectly quiet. There were no cicadas outside, and no ghost inside, holy or unholy. As he laid down each object he had bought he pronounced its name—and each, together, the object and the word, made a heavy sound against that quiet.
Douglas’s mother was not in her usual place by the stove. Her usual pile of mending was there, where she would otherwise have been, and Douglas felt the exact emptiness of the space she did not fill. His heart beat faster as if to fill it but it did not fill it. He was alone with his father as his father named things and placed them on the table: Rope. Ten feet. A silver canteen and a box of chewing tobacco. All of this and more were placed into the Army-issue rucksack on which his father’s surname: SINCLAIR—also, of course, Douglas’s own—was stitched in uneven red letters.
It was late. Douglas’s father said: Time to turn in, son.
He wished his mother would return, but she did not. Even after he had, at his father’s request, crawled into his bed by the stove for what would be the last time, he tried to stay awake. He tried to wait for her. It felt important that he should hear her familiar step on the porch before he slept. But he did not. He drifted to sleep despite himself, and woke only to his father shaking him softly on the shoulder. And so, the sun not yet fully risen, they went on their way that morning without taking leave of his mother—who, asleep now in the adjacent room (his father said), it was best not to wake.
AFTER A WHILE — SOME MILE and a half—they came to the crossroads. Chet was waiting for them there. Douglas saw him from a distance, sitting by the side of the road. When he saw them coming, he got up with a grin. He was so tall and thin it looked like if he turned around sideways he might disappear. But he didn’t turn, and came forward and shook Douglas’s father’s hand. Then he shook Douglas’s hand, like he was grown-up, too, and then they all kept walking. His father and Chet talked a lot between themselves. Once, his father turned and said, Isn’t that right, boy? But Douglas didn’t know what it was that had been said, let alone whether whatever it was was right or wrong, so he didn’t reply. His father gave him a shake and said, What’s the matter with you? Look alive, now, son! So he tried to look alive, but it was difficult what with also having to try to keep up with their pace, and think about all the things he was busy thinking about just then. But then he heard his mother’s name and paid attention.
She was gone all afternoon and half of the night, his father said— longer than he’d expected. But sure enough she’d come back with the ticket. Kept—he said—like a pledge at her father’s house, since his return from the war.
How’s that? Chet asked. And so his father explained how it was that, fresh from the service—with nothing to show for himself but his name— he had promised every penny of his bonus to his wife. Just as soon as it came through.
And it didn’t seem too shabby a thing! his father said. A pension— ha! More than most could offer then. And now? Well. Somethin’ better than gold. I gave that ticket to her daddy on the day we was married, so’s he could see I was good for it; that I meant my word. And by God, I did—I do. Still—it was all I could do to convince her, now. It’s a fair lot to risk—she said—losing a job, when most folks don’t have none. And what with leaving her all alone (I was dead set, I told her, on taking the boy) …
Here Douglas’s father paused. With the back of his hand, he wiped the sweat that had begun to collect on his brow. Well, that was a small price to pay—he continued—when you thought of it. Of what they had coming to them, if they just dared stand up and ask. I won that bonus fighting—Douglas’s father said. Blast me if I’m not going to win it again by doing the same. And sure enough—he continued, after they had traveled a few more paces together in silence—she’ll thank me, once we get what it is we’ve been owed. We’ll quit this place—that’s one thing sure; start us up someplace new. Get us a plot of land somewheres. Virginia, maybe. Tennessee. Send back for Lou once everything’s paid. That’s right, Douglas’s father said; I can swear it to you now, Chet, as God is my witness. Neither I nor my boy will be coming back this way, to work for the Duke or any other man.
Though Douglas’s heart had, a moment before, thrilled at the sound of his father’s voice—at the thought of the plot of land, in Virginia, or Tennessee, which would soon be their own—another feeling, more difficult to place, mixed in now as his father spread his arm in a wide arc behind them and Douglas traced the path that it made with his eyes. A dull pain—too deep to trace to its particular source—as he thought now, in whatever dim way he could, of the time and distance they would have to cover before everything was “paid,” and they could send for his mother.
His mother, who—at that very moment (Douglas’s heart lurched at the thought of it)—was first waking. Was realizing again (if, over the course of the night, she’d forgotten) that she had—as his father had promised—been left quite alone.
Both Douglas’s father and Chet were quiet now. Only their feet, marching roughly in step—though Chet’s legs were so much longer— made any sound. Douglas’s father had placed his right hand over his breast pocket—where, inside, his bonus ticket lay—and Douglas looked at his father’s hand, and the breast pocket beneath it, then down at the road, at his father’s f
eet. After a while, without noticing at first, he began to count his father’s steps beside him. One. Two. Three. Four. Why his father’s instead of his own? Five. Six. Seven … It kept his mind occupied, and at the same time reassured him of the progress they made. If he looked out, instead, too far down the road, it seemed they were hardly moving at all, and so never would get any nearer to anything, or farther away.
—
IT WAS THE MIDDLE OF THE AFTER NOON BY THE TIME THEY REACHED Junction City. By evening, they had boarded a train heading east, toward Topeka and Kansas City. They shared a car, and the last of Douglas’s mother’s bread, with two men also bound for Washington. In exchange for the bread, one of the men, a broad-shouldered man named Jim, opened up a can of beans, from which they took turns eating from a single spoon. After each bite, the men licked the spoon so clean it shone, even in the dimming light. Then, just as they finished the can, and the bread was gone, the train ground to a halt, though they hadn’t arrived anywhere. They stayed put like that for nearly an hour. Douglas wondered if they would ever move again, or if they would stay put like that, and have to walk all the way to Topeka, or farther than that, in the morning. His shoes were already nearly worn out with walking, and they had only been gone a single day. There was even a hole in the toe of one of them, and the other was split along the inside seam so that it was no trouble at all for dirt and sand to get in and he had to shake his foot every third or fourth step in an effort to get it out again. But it never did come out, once it was in. Not until they stopped and he cleaned the inside of the shoe with a corner of his pocket handkerchief. Only then, for a short time, when they first began walking again, was there no sand in his shoe. Then there was again. And the more sand that piled in there, the more would come, or so it seemed. And no shaking or hopping would get it out, but still Douglas shook and hopped until they sat down again, and his father said, What’s wrong, boy? Are you going to dance like that all the way to Washington? And when he showed his father the hole in his shoe, his father told him not to worry. He was going to get him some brand-new shoes in Kansas City when they arrived there, he said, and in the meantime they would patch the ones he had up good and solid. He took out a thick wool sock and told Douglas to put it on and then he said, Now see if that ain’t better, see if any of that dirt can come in now; for a while it could not, but his foot sweated and got sore, and the wool scratched at the places on his foot that had already been rubbed raw.
It had been a relief because of that when they first climbed onto the train to take his shoes and socks off and prop his feet up on his rucksack, next to his father’s feet, which had also been put out to air. He laid his head on the rolled-up blanket he’d carried, because it was too hot to roll it out. His father was propped up by his own rolled-up blanket and, the way he lay, his Adam’s apple stood up straight like the point of a knife in his throat. He let out a low whistle. If this ain’t living, he said. Chet laughed, and Jim nodded, but his companion, a short brown-skinned man, who looked to be a Mexican, said, And what if it ain’t?
Don’t mind him, Jim said. He’s still sore over losing three dollars to an Indian.
Well, now, what did he do that for? Douglas’s father asked.
Jim shrugged his big shoulders and the Mexican swore under his breath. He’s lucky he didn’t lose more, Jim said. Them Injuns get mean when they want something. They’re liable just to take it right out from under you most times, give ’em half a chance. Whole world’s getting like that, more or less. Real savage-like.
Yes, that’s so, Jim continued. No one pays any mind to the next man now. Take tonight, for example, when we passed ’round those beans and yer missus’s bread,’til there wasn’t any one of us got more nor less than the other. If everyone did like we did—shared things out, civilizedlike—I figure there wouldn’t be no need of getting robbed by Indians. Nor stealing from them neither.
Well, that sure is a pretty thought, Douglas’s father said. Don’t you like that, Chet? I sure am liking to imagine ol’ Duke spooning me out just as much bread and molasses as he sits down to each night. Chet laughed, then his father did, too. Jim stayed quiet; his feelings were hurt.
But see, now, that’s dreaming, Douglas’s father said after he and Chet were done laughing. Things just ain’t like that, nor will they be, and if you start believing they are, or wishing too hard on it, you’re liable to get a whole lot more’n three dollars stole.
Just then the train gave a lurch and began to roll slowly. The moon followed. Douglas’s father settled back again, his head propped on his bedroll. Yessir, he said. We’re on our way now. Then everyone was quiet for a time, just appreciating the steady racket of the wheels on the tracks as the train picked up speed.
Yessir, Douglas’s father said, as though speaking to no one now. If you don’t go ahead and take what’s yours, sooner or later you’ll be left with nothing at all. Might as well, he said—and now he gestured toward the open cargo doors, where outside the moon trailed heavily overhead—be nothing more’n—a—a wild animal, out there. All alone, scrambling t’ just—
But he didn’t have a chance to finish his thought.
What’s that? Jim said. What did you say? He was leaning forward now, his eyes dark suddenly, and mean. Say it again, he said.
What again? Douglas’s father said.
Jim’s eyes flashed. You know, he said. Who you calling a—
Well—hold on, Douglas’s father said. Hold on. Nobody’s called nobody nothing yet, so far as I can tell.
Well, Jim said—his voice was uneasy. It shore sounded like somebody did.
Awww … come on, now, Chet said, raising himself on an elbow to look at the two men. We’re all right.
Yeah, Douglas’s father agreed—after a moment in which it seemed he might say more. We’re all right. We’re civilized, ain’t we?
Uncertain whether he was being made fun of or not, Jim didn’t say anything for a while, but then he and Douglas’s father went back to talking, pleasantly enough, and from time to time Chet’s voice joined in—but never the deep growl of the man who had got himself robbed by an Indian. Jim didn’t talk like anyone Douglas had ever known before, and he tried to imagine what it would be like to be from a place—like California—where he had never been. To not even know a place like Junction City, if you didn’t want to, and didn’t happen to pass through it one day. It was strange to think about. About how many people there were all over the world who had never been to or even heard much of anything about Junction City. Who didn’t know what it was like, or even think to imagine what it was like—to be there, where he was just now: somewhere in between Junction City and Topeka and on his way to Kansas City, then beyond. All the way to Hoover’s door, Douglas’s father had said—in order to claim what, by rights, was already theirs.
Did that make them—Douglas wondered—civilized? Was it that? Knowing what was yours by right? Having a paper to prove it? Rather than just … taking things, like a wild animal or an Indian?
He figured that was probably right. Though just at that moment he thought it might be nice, after all, to be an animal instead—a mountain lion or a grizzly. To never be afraid of anything at all, except maybe fire; to never feel lonely because there was no open space in your heart for anything at all, let alone loneliness, to get in. The heart of a mountain lion, he thought, would be as solid as that. Their brains, too—quick and hard. All the different parts fit together inside like the cars on a train; thoughts like light streaming in through a semi-open door.
As he drifted to sleep, Douglas heard his father’s voice rise and fall alongside Jim’s—until at last there was nothing to tell them apart, the familiar and the strange—and he hardly noticed when even the familiar dropped away, and only Jim’s voice remained.
By God, said the voice, I was there. Saw it with my own eyes. When General Pershing knelt to kiss the sword Napoleon himself had carried all through the Battle of Marengo. Then Stanton—he knelt, too. Said: Here we are. And we were. S
taying in those crummy barracks outside town. Getting eaten alive by the descendants of lice who’d once eaten Napoleon’s men. I considered it a privilege. Especially for those of us, like myself, who, before we shipped, had never even fired a gun. Well, if we didn’t whip them anyway. There was something in us—in all of us. Some instinct for survival—for freedom above all—which did us proud. And it was that, mark me, more than any general or any gun, that won us the war. But now—the voice paused. The train measured four long beats. Nobody remembers any of that now.
Douglas’s father and Chet had been asleep for some time, and now Douglas suspected that the Mexican was sleeping, too. Everyone in the whole world was sleeping—except Douglas and Jim. But then, he could not even be certain of that; perhaps he himself was not fully awake, and Jim neither. Perhaps he had already, as he had for some time suspected, ceased to be able to properly discern where Jim’s reminiscences of the Great War left off and his own dreams began, and before long, despite his best efforts, there was little use in attempting to make any distinction at all; the two combined, and were one. And that was how, a few moments later, Douglas arrived, along with his father and Chet, the Duke, the Mexican, and Jim, at Hoover’s doorstep, to be greeted by a crowd of French soldiers, who shouted and cheered and stamped their feet, and sang “Roses of Picardy” in rich tenor voices, which sounded just like his father’s had always sounded, after returning at the end of the day from the field, back home.
—
WHEN HIS FATHER ROUSED HIM IN THE EARLY MORNING, IT MUST HAVE been from a very deep sleep. For some time he did not know where he was. The sun had already risen, but it seemed to be coming from the wrong direction. There was no time to dwell on the problem, however. His father had already rolled up his blanket and was now pulling on his boots.
Quartet for the End of Time Page 7
