It was shady yet warm in the bush. The afternoon sun was strong. Brownish-green leaves were beginning to fall from the trees on the path. The berry patch was at the southwest fringe of the bush. Mrs. Walton walked slowly with a strong stride, her wide-brimmed hat flapping regularly. It was warm in the bush and small noises sounded loud but it was cooling to look back through the trees to the blue waterline of the bay. Anna at times left her mother and played among the trees, hiding behind a big rock, calling to her that she couldn’t find her. Many huge rounded rocks were in the bush. Gus followed carefully.
The trees thinned out at the fringe of the bush and the berry patch. No one else was berry picking. Mrs. Walton quickly started to work. The berries were black and heavy and fell with a soft little thud in the bottom of the pail. Gus, his side straight against a tree, watched her working, filling the small box, then dumping it into the pail close to her right leg. He watched until the pail was nearly three-quarters full. The little girl at the bush to the left was filling her box slowly and eating the berries. Gus dropped his coat and stepped from behind a tree, leaning his weight back off his step on the twigs. He thought he wanted to grab the kid, but sneaked up behind Mrs. Walton, her shoulder dipping up and down with the picking. He was behind her, flinging his arms around her waist, pulling back heavily. The berries sprayed from the box.
“You got to let me have the kid,” he said.
She squealed, frightened at first, but seeing and knowing him, she got mad. “Let me go, Gus Rapp, you big fool. Just you wait,” she said.
Gus said nothing and stopped thinking. He tried to trip and throw her down but she dropped to her knees, gripping hard at his belt and yelling to the girl to run. He banged her on the mouth and leaned forward and down heavily on her shoulders. The kid got as far as a big rock and stood screeching at him.
“You damn kid, shut up,” he yelled.
The woman kicked and scratched so he flopped down, smothering her, jerking her hands from his belt, getting her between his legs. She yelled, “Anna, Anna,” but one big hand was on her throat, squeezing. Her clothes ripped and she rolled, but he held, hard pressing, bending her stiff back until the kid ran up and got hold of his ankle just above the thick boot, pulling; his arm swung free and caught the kid by the throat, slamming her down hard, choking her. He tugged and the woman’s sweater came away. Twisting around and holding her arm, he grunted, “You got to lie there,” three times. His legs were thick and heavy and she got weaker. His arms were hard and heavy but she bit deep into his forearm and he hollered, “God damn it.” He could hardly hold on. She was a big strong woman and the kid was yelling. Snarling, he jerked loose, spinning around and pulling at his gun. He felt crazy and didn’t know why he was doing it. He jumped up shooting, three shots; and one grazed her forehead, gashing her cheek, and one went into a log. Then he ran at the kid to stop her yelling, taking her by the neck. Mrs. Walton said not very loud, “Don’t kill my little girl,” so he shot at the woman to kill, but missed.
The kid got up and started to run. Gus took a jump at the woman, knocking her over easily, but didn’t know what he wanted. He couldn’t help thinking what his boss, Sid Walton, would do about it. Mrs. Walton got up slowly. He was scared, and said, “You better lie there.” Her skirt was torn and blood was on her leg. He wanted to run away. She zigzagged through the trees after her girl, pushing the hair out of her eyes and crying softly as she ran. Gus hesitated, watching her, then ran the other way, through the bush away from the town.
He ran and stumbled through the bush, quite sober and scared, his heart pounding heavily as he banged into little trees, his shaky legs hardly knowing where to go. He wanted to get through the bush to the bay and along the road to the rifle ranges where he could maybe swipe a boat. After running until he was tired, he stopped suddenly and thought it was no use trying. He looked around the bush and down to the bay. Between him and the lakeshore road was a line of trees, branches and tops covered with thick old vines that kids used for tree tag. He climbed a tree to the vines, his feet slashing through green shoots, but the thick, springy wood held him. He twined the vines round his legs, resting most of his weight on a branch near the top. The branch swayed and he sweated and cursed and shivered, waiting for the dark. He looked through the leaves up the road and away over the town at the orange sky on the blue mountains, and at the still waters of the bay and the fading skyline.
It got dark and no one came near the tree. He felt better but very stiff and still shaky. It would fool everybody to go back to the town, he muttered. He slid down the vines and started running, his feet thudding steadily, his breath whistling.
Where the road went back from the shoreline he left it, going down by the waterworks and back of Harvey’s fishing-station. The big shadow of the wooded picnic park was ahead and he was glad to go because they’d think it a silly place to look. The streetlights seemed bright and gave him a funny feeling over his stomach. Maybe he should have gone looking for a boxcar down at the station, but he ran on to the lumberyard. There was no moon and he was sure the lumber was piled too high. He went through the lumberyard and over to the elevator. The Mississippi, with a cargo of grain, was docked. He crawled along the pier but boards were rotten farther out and missing in places. The moon came out and the lapping water underneath the pier scared him so much he lay flat on his belly, breathing drunkenly, trying to pray. “Holy Mary, Holy Mary, Holy Mary, you can do it. I used to go to church, I used to go with the old lady.” A light was lit on the Mississippi and then two more. A pain was in his side but he went slinking back along the pier and out again to the lakeshore road. It was a shame having to pass his own house, and he thought of the old man sleeping in there.
Gus was surprised to feel hungry. He went along the side entrance of a house with a big veranda and crept into the garden where he pulled carrots and onions, stuffing them into his pockets. The back door opened and in the light he hugged the ground and shivered and puked and lay very still. But the door closed.
He took the road again, running along trying to eat the carrot, and puffing hard. The carrot had a bad taste. He wanted to get around the town and up to the hills. A night bird screeched and his teeth chattered so much he had to drop the carrot. He slowed to a walk.
At a bend in the road near Bell’s grocery store he saw a shadow humped at the foot of a lamppost and the hump became a man getting up from the gutter. Two other men came at him and Gus took three jumps forward. “Oh, I thought you was a bear,” he said. He didn’t have a chance to run. One of the men was Walton with his big hands, and John Woods got ready to slug him, but he slumped loosely in their arms. He said hoarsely, “I don’t want to die, Mr. Walton. Please, Mr. Walton, for Christ sake.” Sid put his hand over Gus’s mouth and squeezed until he spluttered and shut up. “Truss the skunk up, boys,” he said. They bound his hands and put three ropes around his waist and shoulders, the ropes five feet long, a man at the end of each rope. They twisted the ropes around Gus and the lamppost while Joel Hurst went in the grocery store to phone for the police car. Gus couldn’t cry, he was so scared of Walton. There was a gray streak of light in the sky across the bay.
The Bells and their four kids came out half dressed, forming a circle around Gus. Lights appeared in the windows of other houses. People were hearing that Gus was caught. Leaning his weight forward on the ropes, he stared hard at the bat that swooped and darted around the light overhead. The police car came along and they had no trouble with him. As Gus got in, the kids yelled and threw stones and sticks at him.
1927
A COUNTRY PASSION
The paper was not interesting and at the end of the column he did not remember what he had been reading, so he tossed the paper on the porch, and slumped back in the chair, looking over into Corley’s back yard.
A clump of lilac trees prevented him from seeing directly through the open door to Corley’s kitchen. Jim Cline, sitting on the porch, could see two wire bird-cages on Corley’s back veranda. Th
e faint smell of lilacs pleased him.
Jim got up, leaning over the porch rail and sucked in his upper lip. The moustache tickled him, and he rubbed his hand quickly across his bearded face. Ettie Corley came out and sat down on the back steps. Ettie was sixteen but so backward for her age she had had to quit school. Jim was twenty-nine years older than Ettie. In two days’ time Ettie was to go away to an institution in Barrie. Jim had wanted to marry her but the minister, who had reminded him that he had been in jail four times, would not marry them, so he had come to an agreement with her anyway.
Jim rubbed the toe-cap of his right boot against the heel of his left. His boots were thick and heavy. He repaired them himself and could not get the soles on evenly. His brother Jake came out and picked up the paper. Jake saw Jim’s forehead wrinkling and knew something was worrying him. One of the canaries in a cage on Corley’s veranda started to sing and Jake looked over and saw Ettie.
“It ain’t no good, Jim.”
“Eh?”
“What’s the matter?”
“Aw, lay off, Jake.”
“Heard up town today they’re thinkin’ of ropin’ you in on somethin’ pretty bad.”
“They roped me in a few times before, didn’t they, Jake?”
“Well, it’s done you no good.”
“Awright, it’s done me no good.”
“It’ll be serious.”
“Who’s going to touch me around here?”
Turning away in disgust he looked through the lilac leaves. Jake thrust his hands in his pockets, then drew out the right one and examined the palm attentively.
“The sun’s hitting the porch,” Jim said suddenly. “I think I’ll go in.” The sun shone on his thick neck. He turned around, shaking his head, and blinked his eyes in the sun.
“Didn’t I buy Corley’s coal last winter? Where’d Ettie be now if it weren’t for me? Where’s her sister gone, running around like a little mink somewhere?”
He went in the house, right through the kitchen to the hall and out to the front steps, and looked around, surprised to find himself facing the street so unexpectedly, then he stared down at a broken picket in the walk. As he looked at the one broken picket in particular, he wondered how he could fix things up with Ettie. Stepping down to the walk he pulled the broken picket from the scantling and tossed it out to the road. Dust formed in a small cloud and drifted toward the green grass on the other side of the road.
He walked across the front of the house and stood at the corner, waving his hand at Ettie. She saw him and came out to the sidewalk and down to Cline’s veranda.
“What do ya want, Jim?”
“What’s up, do you know?”
“I’m kind of scared. They got it out of me.”
“They won’t do nothin’; that’s all right.”
“Can’t we beat it, Jim?”
“No use, you can’t beat it.”
She was a big girl for her age, and her mouth was hanging open, and her dress was four inches above her knees, and her hair uncombed. Jim didn’t notice that her hair wasn’t combed. He was so eager to explain something to her, an idea that might be carried to a point where everything would be satisfactory, but words wouldn’t come readily. It was a feeling inside him but he had no words for it. He felt himself getting hold of a definite thought. Last winter he had wanted to give her some underwear after discovering she had made some herself out of sacking but she had protested strongly against such extravagance.
“I’m going to give you something to wear before you go ‘way, Ettie.”
“Aw no, Jim.”
“I’m going to get the car out and we’ll go down-street and get some.”
Half grinning she wiped away a strand of hair from her face. She looked worried, moistening her lips, and she leaned against the thick poplar tree while he went around the house to get the car. He had a slouchy stride, his wide shoulders swinging as he walked.
The car rocked and swayed coming up the driveway. Ettie got into the car. Passing Corleys’, Jim drove slowly without looking at Ettie. Mrs. Corley came out to the sidewalk, wiping her hands in her apron, shaking her head jerkily. She watched the car turn the corner, then went into the house quickly, her loose shoes scraping on the steps.
At the Elton Avenue bridge Jim stopped the car while Noble’s cow crossed, its tail swishing against the rear mudguard. Tommie Noble, following a few paces behind, glanced at Jim and Ettie, then turned his head away. “Co Boss,” he said, cutting at the cow with a gad. The car jerked forward, Ettie bounced back, her head hitting Jim’s shoulder.
They drove down Main Street and Jim parked the car outside Hunt’s dry-goods store. Until the car stopped in front of the store Jim had imagined himself going in with Ettie, but he merely took hold of her by the wrist, giving her an idea of the things he thought she should buy. Ettie giggled a little till Jim took seven dollars out of his pocket and counted it carefully. “Aw gee, Jim, you’d be good to me,” she said.
She got out of the car and walked timidly across the sidewalk to the store. The door closed behind her and Jim fidgeted to get a more comfortable position, one foot thrust over the car door, his eyes closed. Ettie would just about be talking to a clerk, he thought, and imagined the woman taking down from a shelf many flimsy articles for a girl. He hoped Ettie would not buy the first shown to her instead of taking time to pick out pale blue, or cream, or even pink, which would be a nice color for a girl. Jim opened his eyes, looking down the street. Three kids, swinging wet bathing-suits, were coming along the street.
Smiling prettily, Ettie crossed over to the car and Jim kicked the door open with his heel. She had the bundle under her arm. “Oh, boy,” she said, climbing into the car. Jim looked at her, her cheeks flushed, eyes bright, and grinning. He started the car. She would become a fine woman later on, he thought.
“We’ll be getting along,” he said cheerfully.
“Ain’t it too bad we got to go home?”
“Aw hell, Ettie.”
The car turned out to the middle of the road, and backed up, and Jim saw the sheriff, Ned Bickle, getting out of a car at the curb. Jack Spratt and Henry Tompkins were with him. The three men, walking alertly, approached Jim’s car.
“Get out of the car, Jim,” the sheriff said.
“What’s the matter, Ned?” Jim said suspiciously, though appearing very friendly. Ned had arrested him three times, twice for stealing chickens, once when he had got into a fight at Clayton’s blind pig, but it had required at least three men to hold him. The sheriff weighed two hundred and twenty-five pounds. His hard hat was pushed well back on his head, a two-days’ growth of hair was on his face. Jim did not look directly at either Tompkins or Spratt, though aware of them as if they had been just a few feet from him many times before.
“Now Jim, there’s a couple of charges against you. You know how it is, Jim.”
“Awright, go on, don’t get tongue-tied.”
“Well, it’s about Ettie, Jim.”
“What about her?”
“Her old woman’s had a lot to say.”
Jim leaned over the steering-wheel, staring at the sheriff, then glancing casually at Ettie, was suddenly disappointed and bewildered. He straightened up, his back erect, resentful, his neck getting red, his moustache twitching till his lower lip moved up and held it. His left foot shot out and the door flew open, catching Tompkins in the middle, forcing him back two or three paces.
Jim jumped out, but tripped on the running-board and lurched forward, bumping blindly against Tompkins and spinning half-way round. Tompkins wrapped his arms around Jim’s back and held on as Jim tried to swing him off. Twice he swung his shoulders, and one of Tompkins’ arms lost its grip. Only someone had Jim’s feet. He yelled and kicked out with his free foot, the boot sinking into something soft, but a huge weight was on his shoulders, forcing him down slowly, his knees bending gradually, his feet stationary, his legs held tightly together. They had him. Jim knew when they had him in such a way h
e couldn’t move. Always they tried to get him the same way. He toppled over on his back and the road bricks hurt his shoulder-blades.
“Just a minute now till I get the cuffs out,” the sheriff said.
The cuffs went on easily. Jim stretched out on the road, twisted his head till he could see Ettie, who was standing up in the car, leaning over the seat, crying and yelling, “Leave him alone, do ya hear, leave him alone.”
They hoisted Jim to his feet. He walked willingly to the sheriff’s car. People who had come out of the stores to stand on the curb now formed a ring around the police car. “Aw leave the guy alone,” somebody yelled. Ned Bickle pushed Jim into the back seat and got in beside him. Tompkins stepped into the driver’s seat. Spratt went over to Jim’s car to drive Ettie home.
“This is about the worst you been in yet,” Bickle said to Jim as the car passed the dry-goods store. The sheriff, puffing a little, was smiling contentedly, feeling good-natured.
“Yeah.”
“I’m afraid you’ll do a long stretch, Jim.”
“What for? What gets into you guys?”
“Seduction and abduction we’re calling it, Jim.”
“Aw lay down.”
Under the maple trees in front of the jail the car stopped. The leaves of the tree were so low they scraped against Jim’s bare head as he stood up to get out. The jail was a one-storey brick building, four cells and a yard with a twelve-foot brick wall. Jim had been in jail three times but had never remained there more than fifteen days.
Tompkins and Spratt followed Jim and the sheriff into the cell and leaned against the wall, very serious while Ned was taking the handcuff from his own wrist, then from Jim’s wrist. Jim, rubbing his wrist, looked at the bare walls, many names written there, his own over at the corner, underneath the window.
“Who else is around?” Jim asked.
“Willie Hopkins.”
“What for?”
Ancient Lineage and Other Stories Page 4
