by Davis Grubb
Leavin’, boy?
Yep! Gotta watch out for Pearl, Uncle Birdie.
Well good night, boy. Come again—anytime. And mind, now—I’ll have your paw’s skiff in shipshape inside of a week.
John skipped up the plank and onto the bricks of the landing, already slick with evening mists. The water front was lined with buggies and old Model T’s with ditch mud splattered clean to the windows. Country girls and their boys and the old folks lined the shore with their hands holding their money till the calliope stopped playing. Then they would go down and give Mr. Bryant their money and go inside for the show. John sighed and moved away along the tree-shaded darkness of Peacock Alley. He was wild with misgivings now about having left Pearl alone in the house. She was his trust, his pledge to Ben. As he hurried for the river road the voice of the calliope fell to a thin, faint chatter high in the spring night. Passing Spoon’s he spied his mother and Icey at the fountain, and Icey was fairly dancing a jig and hugging Willa and kissing her cheek, and he moved on past, shaking his head, wondering what they were up to now, thinking that he would never understand the ways of woman. He hurried more, knowing that it was past ten, and he did not want his mother to overtake him on her way home from work. The house loomed silent in the faint shine of the young spring moon. The light of the gas lamp in the yard lit the peppering of new growth on the oak tree and he saw that the lamp in the parlor window was lit. He could not remember whether it had been lit when he left and that made him frightened because he was sure Willa would not have left it burning.
Is somebody there? he said to the house, as he tiptoed up the steps.
By the river, under the fog, the green frogs chanted their unending litany of love.
Is anybody there?
But there was no reply, no sound, and he opened the screen door and closed it softly and stepped into the shadowed hallway. He knew almost at once that Preacher was there or had been there not an instant before because there was a Preacher smell in the silent air and it was the smell of dread in his nose, and doglike his flesh gathered and bunched at the scent of it.
Is anybody here?
Good evening, John!
So he had been standing there all along by the hall rack where Ben Harper used to hang his cap when he came in from the car of an evening. Preacher: standing there all along, letting him be scared, letting him call three times before he answered. Now Preacher moved forward and the light from the open doorway to the parlor threw a gold bar of light across the livid line of lip and cheek and bone beneath and one eye shone like a dark, wet grape and the lid crinkled over it nervously.
Does your mother know you go wandering alone at night, John?
No. She said—
But there was no way to explain, no excuse, no escape. And then he felt the anger rise choking in his throat and he thought: What right has he got?
Your little sister Pearl is asleep, then?
Yes.
Good, John.
Now he was in his genial, cajoling mood, and John knew suddenly that he liked this mood less than the other: the dangerous mood, because you never knew what was going on behind the coaxing, squinting eyes and the thin smile.
I have something to talk to you about, John.
Well, he sighed. I reckon I ought to be gettin’ up to bed if you don’t mind—
Really, my lad! You weren’t worryin’ about bed when you sneaked off to the wharf to waste your time with that evil old man.
And this had John dead to rights and so he sat down on a straight-backed chair by the door and wished for the sound of Willa’s footfall on the tanbark outside because he was getting scared again like he had been that night on the steamboat. Then he heard the scrape of another chair as Preacher sat opposite him and laid a cold finger on his hand.
I had a little talk with your mother tonight, John.
John thought: Why don’t he take me in the parlor to talk where there is light instead of out here in the dark hallway where I can’t watch his face while he says it and know whether what he is saying is real or not.
We talked it over, John—and your mother decided it might be best for me to—let you know the news.
What news? What?
Your mother told me tonight she wanted me to be a daddy to you and your sister. We’re going to get married, boy!
He thought: That is why it is all dark out there, because it is asleep and I am having a bad dream because I rolled over on Pearl’s doll and it hurts my stomach and when I wake up I will see the light on the wall where the tree branch dances and then I will turn over and it won’t hurt any more.
Did you hear what I said, boy?
What?
Your mother and I— Did you hear what I said?
He thought: She wouldn’t do this to Dad because he loved all of us and because if she does it he will come back and kill her because he isn’t really in that mound.
Married! Preacher’s voice went on triumphantly. We have decided to go to Sistersville tomorrow and have a very simple wedding and when we come back—
You ain’t my dad! breathed John. You won’t never be my dad!
He was not scared anymore; his anger swung and blazed in the dark room like a pine torch.
—and when we come back, shrilled Preacher, we will all live here together in this house—and be friends—and share our fortunes together, John!
Afterward John could not believe he could ever have said so foolish a thing as he said next. At night, remembering it weeks later, he would sweat and clench his hands till the soft nails bit into the palms and the lips in his tossing face would deny it to the dark, to the dancing figures on the golden square, to the lashing wind and the river night. But it was true—he had said it.
You think you can make me tell! he had screamed, till the house was shrill with it. But I won’t! I won’t! I won’t!
And then he hunched and gawked at his own folly. And the fingers of his left hand cupped over his aghast mouth; his fingers tasting of river and tar from the wharfboat, and his heart crying out like a little dry voice of dread: Oh, I shouldn’t never have said that! Now he will guess! Now he will know! Oh, God, please don’t let him know!
Tell me what, boy? said Preacher softly, and though the face had moved out of the bar of light again John knew the head was cocked and the mouth smiling.
Nothin’!
Are we keeping secrets from one another, little lad?
No. No.
Now the vast, dark figure straightened and relaxed, chuckling softly.
No matter, boy! We’ve got a long time together.
He held out the hand called Love but John did not move.
Will you shake my hand, boy? Will you wish me happiness with your mother?
John whirled then and raced helter-skelter up the creaking stairway to the bed where he had belonged all along and he knew God had done all this thing to him to punish him for being bad and leaving Pearl alone. He crouched by her sleeping face and listened to the house. He knew Preacher had not left, that he would be standing there still in the hall by the coat rack, stunned with anger and affront. But while John tore his clothes from his aching body he heard the fall of the door at last and then the footsteps going down the lane. Preacher was gone and yet he must be certain and so he stole to the window and spied the lonely figure moving into the mists toward Cresap’s Landing. Once the figure paused and looked back but John could not see the face; could not know what fury rested there or what black resolutions already stirred in the clenched hand named Hate. John curled up in the darkness beneath the quilt and embraced the warm body of the sleeping Pearl while his hand sought for the doll’s face and his finger traced the shape of one staring plaster eye over and over in senseless and iterant terror.
—
Tonight, chuckled Icey, patting John’s head, you and your sister are going to sleep here with me and Mister Spoon.
Where’s Mom, John? said Pearl.
Icey caught the little girl up and plumped her into the
ample lap and patted a chubby knee.
Your ma has went to Sistersville, she said. With Mr. Powell!
Why?
To git married is why! Ain’t that nice, honey? Just think! ’Gainst she gits back tomorrow you’ll have a brand-new dad.
Is Dad comin’ home?
John wandered away from them, stood staring out through the sparkling, spotless window of the ice-cream parlor into deserted Peacock Alley. He did not like Icey or Walt. They were part of it; they had helped fashion the nightmare. He had known their part in it since the day on the boat. The ice-cream parlor smelled like milk and licorice and burnt almond. All through that hazy spring afternoon he wandered among the wire chairs and tables, gazing with numb, hungerless curiosity at the little trays of candies in the bellied glass cases. Pearl sat in the window by the sleeping tortoise-shell cat and played a little game of house with the doll Jenny. At suppertime John took his place wordlessly at the alien board and ate glumly, answering when spoken to, eyes downcast to the strange plate with its seasoning that was just enough different from his mother’s to sicken his heart.
More applesauce, John? smiled Walt Spoon kindly.
No, thank you.
Goodness, boy! You ain’t hardly touched your plate. Your sister has licked hers clean twice. You ain’t gonna let a girl beat you at eatin’ are ye?
I ate some, he said.
By granny, Icey! I think this boy could do with a little sulphur and molasses. Have ye had your spring tonic this spring, boy?
No.
Walt had counted on this frightening the boy into eating but nothing changed him, nothing stirred the sullen lackluster eyes that shone dully with the suffering that none of them could understand. Icey held her peace till after the Italian cream was finished and then she began.
John?
Yes’m.
You’ve got no cause to act up this way about your mother’s marryin’ Mr. Powell.
He freed the napkin slowly from his collar.
I declare! I’d think a boy like you would be proud gettin’ a fine stepfather like Mr. Powell.
She fixed him with her shrewish and unwavering scrutiny, searching for some effects of these remarks.
Hmmph! I reckon you’d be happy if your ma was goin’ to marry Uncle Birdie Steptoe.
He kept his eyes lowered, waiting till she was done, knowing it was part of his lot to endure this, too. Pearl had scrambled down from her chair and dragged the doll Jenny off to the ice-cream parlor again, to the window. The cat followed, meowing softly, thinking she had brought away some scrap of her supper for him to eat. Icey grunted impatiently and snatched up a pile of plates, bound for the sink. John went out on the back porch and sat down on the worn stoop to stare at the moon that had risen and lay in the orchard trees like a rind of golden fruit. He heard a raincrow purling its soft cry down the lane toward the river.
—
I’ve put fresh sheets and a fresh bolster case on for you! cried Icey. You’ll find it just as comfy as your own bed.
John stood in his nightshirt waiting for Pearl to precede him into bed.
Here, honey, said Icey, marching to Pearl with out-stretched arms. I’ll take your doll so’s you won’t roll on it.
John’s mouth flew open, but it was Pearl who spoke.
Oh, no! Miz Jenny always sleeps in the bed with me.
Nonsense! You’ll roll on her in your sleep and hurt yourself, honey. Now I’ll keep good care of the doll for you till morning—
No, said John in a faraway voice that did not seem to come from him at all. Pearl always sleeps with her doll, Miz Spoon, ma’am.
Icey whirled and glared.
Mind your business, youngster!
He crawled between the cold sheets, his lips the color of death, trembling even after Icey had agreed to let Pearl keep the doll and bent to kiss the little girl’s cheek.
Good night, little lamb, she whispered, and she kissed John, too, but said nothing and presently turned out the gas lamp and moved to the door.
Sleep tight, she whispered and closed it, and John lay listening as the old couple moved about in the kitchen beneath the bedroom, talking in low voices and drinking coffee and moving out front from time to time to serve the few customers that came in after the show. The Victrola whirred and whined in the faint distances below and now the corner of the moon gleamed like the prick of a silver knife against the jamb of the window. Pearl stirred, then turned to face him.
John?
Yes.
Where’s Mom gone?
Go to sleep, Pearl!
No, John! Tell me where?
To git married.
To Mr. Powell?
Yes.
John?
What, Pearl? What is it?
I’m glad, John. I love Mr. Powell!
You little fool! he whispered but so that she did not really hear, making the words to himself with his lips and clenching his fists in awful desperation.
I love him lots and lots, John!
And John thought: She is with him now—Mom is—and she is on his side and now Pearl is on his side, too, and that makes me alone.
Now Pearl was sitting upright in bed and the doll was sitting up, too, its painted eyes staring into the moon with vacuous and stunned idiocy.
John, if Mr. Powell is Mom’s husband then I can tell him about—
His hand with the swiftness of a copperhead flew up and was pressing into her wet, surprised mouth and beneath his strong clasp she struggled, whimpering, and began to squeal softly into his fingers. In a moment he took the hand away, yet held it poised, ready to clamp down again.
You swore, Pearl!
John! Don’t!
You swore that day, Pearl! You promised Dad you wouldn’t tell!
Oh, I wouldn’t never tell, John! You know I wouldn’t never tell!
He glared into her face, chalk-white and gasping.
If ever you do, he whispered furiously, I’ll get a big, big giant to come and murder you!
Oh, John! No!
Yes! Yes! A big giant with a long shiny sticker knife like he’s got!
I promise, John! Oh, John, I swear!
All right! Just so you remember. Do you swear?
Yes! Yes!
Because, John went on, his eyes in the moon now, he’ll ask you some day soon.
Mr. Powell?
Yes. He’ll come and beg you to tell him.
But I won’t tell him, John! I won’t tell ever! Not even Mr. Powell!
She lay back down, breathing heavily with her thoughts and then: John?
Who has a big sticker knife?
Never mind! Go to sleep!
He lay thinking: Last Wednesday when he was out in the garden helping Walt Spoon spread bone meal he hung his coat on the doorknob and I poked around in the pocket when he wasn’t looking and there it was only I didn’t know what until I pressed that little silver button and it jumped out and shook my hand. I tried to get it closed but it wouldn’t work and so I just stuck it back in his coat, open, and run home and I guess he never suspicioned it was me because he never said nothing.
Presently he fell asleep and he was big and strong and he had a blue gun and he was pointing it at Preacher and Preacher was not even scared at all and John kept shooting the gun and Preacher was really dead although he was pretending not to be and then his mother came in the room and took the gun away from him and said: John, you bad boy! Look who you went and shot! And he looked and, Oh, dear God, it wasn’t Preacher at all, it was Ben it was Ben it was his dad Ben and it was too late because Willa took Ben out and hid him in the mound under the tree where the dark bird sings.
—
Willa thought: He looks so queer with no coat on, with his narrow shoulders in the white shirt and those suspenders and his paper collar on the bureau scarf. She felt warm and loving about him though, because it made her think how like little children men were underneath; how helpless and unpretending in their suspenders and no collar. Outside the l
ittle hotel a radio was blaring from an open restaurant down the street. They had taken a pleasant little room at the Brass House and it was her honeymoon and she kept thinking as she watched him lay Ben’s old watch carefully on the dusty dresser: He is my husband and I love him. He is not Ben but I will learn to love him even more because he is a man of God. In a moment she would go down the hallway to the bathroom by the fire escape and put on her nice muslin nightgown and come back to him. It could not ever be the way it had been with Ben those nights in that old, lost summer with the roller skates thundering faintly out in the darkness at the rolla-drome and the record playing over and over: Lucky Lindy! Lucky Lindy! It could not ever be like the nights of that summer. She would make her mind forget that first hot pulse and gush of Ben’s embrace and she would make it something else—something better—between herself and Harry Powell. She lifted the old nightdress from the cardboard suitcase and thought: Because the old clothes don’t matter; the cheap, torn Teddy bears and the ragged stockings and the rundown shoes that I’ve always had to wear. Because I have one nice thing that I gave to Ben and I will give it to him, too—the only nice thing I ever owned: my body. Because it is clean and beautiful and not torn or wore out like the clothes.
Willa, are you going to get ready for bed?
Yes, she said. I was just looking at you, Harry—thinking how handsome and good you are.
Hurry along, my dear! We both need our rest.
Yes! Yes, of course, Harry!
She lifted his coat to hang it up for him and something thick and heavy in the pocket struck against the door of the clothes press. He did not notice when she put her hand in the pocket with a woman’s wondering and took the thing out, stared at it curiously for a moment, with a softening of her smile, and then put it quickly back before he should see. She fetched her washcloth and soap and towel and hairbrush and went off to the bathroom with that smile still on her lips but twisted with faint puzzlement now.
It is a kind of a razor, she kept thinking while she waited in the hallway of the little country hotel while a drummer finished in the bathroom and she listened to the thin, rasping voice of the song on the radio down there in the spring street of the river night. A woman laughed in another room and a glass tinkled and a man began singing a coarse parody of the radio tune and the woman laughed louder.
