by Davis Grubb
You feel better now, John? she said, cocking her head.
Yep.
Did it taste good?
Sure. Thanks, Pearl.
One time, she sighed, Mom sent me to bed without no supper and I got so hungry it was just awful, John.
Thanks, he said finally, wishing the subject to be closed and she sensed that and moved away and sat down on the salt box carpet stool by the dresser and regarded him with grim maternalism.
But just the same, John—you really shouldn’t associate with that filthy old man.
At the window now he was watching Willa’s stooped, nervous figure hurry down the tanbark walk toward the lane on her way to spend another evening at Cresap’s Landing gossiping with Walt and Icey. He watched the light fade slowly from her figure as it moved away from the gold circle of the eternal gas lamp beneath the oak tree and when she was out of sight he thought: Now we are alone again in the house with him. He will come upstairs directly and it will start again: the questions and the being scared. In a minute he will be standing there in the doorway and we won’t even have heard his shoes on the stairway because he moves that way. This house at night is like the river shallows under the skiff, under the willows where it is shady and dark, and that makes it so he can move without anyone knowing it, without anyone seeing him: like the dark shadow of the gar. Only there is nowhere in the world a hook small enough, a horsehair strong enough.
Woolgathering, children?
And he had been there all along, God only knows how long, standing in the doorway watching them, thinking maybe they would let slip some little clue, some little crumb of bait and then he could move quickly like the gar and snatch it into his evil maw.
There’s my little Pearl!
She cried out happily and ran to him and threw her arms around him and the doll Jenny fell forgotten by his shoe toes. John knew that he could not win this battle; the little girl was drawn irresistibly to the stepfather.
Ah, such a sweet little soul, crooned Preacher, stroking her curls with his big, branded fingers. We’re not talking to John tonight—are we, Pearl? John’s been bad.
Pearl’s moon face turned slowly in the gloom and her finger rose to her pouting lips.
No, she said softly. John’s been bad.
John was sent to bed without his supper, wasn’t he, Pearl?
And John knows that if he disobeys again he’ll get a taste of the strap—doesn’t he, Pearl?
Yes, said Pearl, pressing herself closer to Preacher, farther from bad John. The strap! You better be good, John!
Ah! Ah! We mustn’t even speak to John, little sweetheart. John don’t like to be spoken to. We’ll just have a little talk between the two of us—how’ll that be?
Pearl raised her arms so that he could lift her. He smelled like the cellar, like iron, like old leaves in autumn under the grape arbor.
John is a feller, said Preacher softly, who likes to keep secrets.
Pearl fell silent now; something had begun to tug: a wind blew from the east and one from the west and she could not tell which to hark to.
John is a great one for secrets, Preacher continued softly. Especially about hiding things.
John hid his eyes in the window and thought: That is the moon. I can grab her doll in my hand and go through the window and grab the moon and climb up and he cannot get me there and it will be safe after all.
But you and me! cried Preacher softly, intimately. We don’t keep secrets—do we?
No, whispered Pearl, doubtfully, and plucked at her lip with her finger.
Especially, secrets about—money!
Now the finger popped into her mouth and her eyes moved gravely from the face of the hunter to the pale moon of John’s face by the window.
For instance, Preacher said, cunningly, I’ll tell you a little secret!
Pearl listened now. She loved secrets; all of them, that is, but the money secret and that secret scared her because it made John mad.
Would you like that, sweetheart? Would you like to hear a secret?
Yes!
Good! The secret is this—I knowed your daddy.
Pearl frowned.
The blue men, she said solemnly. They come one day and took him away—
Who?
The blue men!
Ah, yes. The blue men, of course. And you know what they did with him? Eh?
No.
Why, they brought him right to me. I’ll bet you didn’t know that, now, did you?
Where’s Dad?
Never mind about that just yet, said Preacher. All things in due time, little bird. First just let me tell you what your daddy said to me. He said: Tell my little girl Pearl that there’s to be no secrets between her and you.
Where’s Dad? she whined again.
Tut! Tut! I’m a-gettin’ to that part. But first you’ve got to understand that other part—the thing I just told you—what your Daddy said about secrets. Did you understand that, now?
Yes!
No secrets between you and me. None at all. Did ye understand that?
Yes.
John’s back arched slowly like a bent elm stick. A single droplet of sweat crept down his shoulder blades like an ant and his eyes fell irresistibly to the sprawled cloth body of the doll by Preacher’s shoes. And the darkness softly breathed while Preacher whispered the next question.
Where’s the money hid?
John had learned to throw during the summer that Ben had taught him to play ball in the meadow below Jander’s Livery Stable. That is why the heavy hairbrush struck Preacher and not Pearl. He heard the black wood ring on the bone of cheek and forehead and heard the soft intake of breath and could not be sure for a moment if it had been Pearl’s or Preacher’s.
You swore you wouldn’t tell! he screamed, stamping his feet and beating the air with his fits. You swore! You swore! You swore!
And then he fell silent and Preacher said nothing but Pearl said: You’re bad, John! You hit Daddy with the hairbrush!
And he lay against the window sill with the night at his back and thought: Why don’t he say nothing? Maybe it didn’t hit him after all. Don’t he feel things? Why don’t he put her down and come over and kill me or something instead of just standing there because even in the dark I can tell: he is smiling about it, smiling because it hurt, because I hit him, smiling because of what he knows he will do to me later to get even. But Pearl didn’t tell. Anyway she didn’t tell!
So you see? Preacher chuckled presently, his voice as if nothing had happened. We can’t have anything to do with John—can we, little sweetheart? John’s just plumb bad through and through.
Yes. John’s plumb bad!
He thought: So he has won again. So now I know why he didn’t get mad. It’s because he was glad I hit him with the hairbrush because that way he can make her think I’m bad and she will tell him the secret.
And so, Preacher said cheerfully, you and me will just lock poor, bad old John in the room, little bird—
And watching them move toward the door he thought: But the doll is on the floor. So there is a chance. Because maybe she will forget about it when he takes her downstairs to talk.
—and you and me will just go on downstairs to the parlor and have a nice little chat, Preacher finished. Would you like that, Pearl?
Yes, said Pearl. Yes, and we won’t let plumb-bad John come, will we?
Oh, gracious, no! John throws things. We’ll punish him later, of course—but first we’ll go and have a talk about all kinds of secrets!
And as he moved to the door she twisted suddenly in his grasp and stretched her twinkling fingers.
Miz Jenny! Miz Jenny!
And Preacher stooped with a chuckle and caught up the flopping cloth body.
Just you and me and Miz Jenny, he said.
We’ll all have a nice little talk, Pearl cried happily and the door closed and the brass key turned and John watched the line of golden light in the crack above the threshold as their shadows split it
and then moved softly away toward the stairs.
—
Willa smiled.
I bear my cross with pride, Icey, she said. I bear it graciously as He meant me to.
I know. I know that, honey. But there ain’t a bit of sense in lettin’ that youngster break up the happiness He meant for you and Mister Powell to have together.
The Lord has His own ways!
Well, sometimes the Lord needs a little help, said Walt. And I don’t reckon a little switchin’ around the legs is no sin.
John favors his father, said Willa. He’s got that streak of Harper, you know.
Yes. Yes. Stubborn and mulish as a sheep.
I don’t know what to do with him, Icey. Whippin’ won’t change him—always suspicionin’ and lyin’ against that man of God. It is my cross, Icey. I must bear it with pride.
Well, sighed the old woman. It’s a pity. It’s a shame. I hope he never grows up to have children of his own serve him that way.
Willa’s face shone with the strange, sweet radiance of one possessed. She rose now and bade them good night.
Good night, honey! And watch your step on the road. Want Walt to walk you?
No! No, thank you! I’ll manage fine, Icey.
At the threshold the old woman caught the girl’s thin face between her fat palms and kissed her quickly.
Willa! Willa! Walt and me couldn’t care about you more if you was our own.
I know, Icey! I know!
And plan on stayin’ longer next time. ’Deed you hardly get settled till you’re frettin’ to git home again.
Willa sighed and smiled, loving the cross she bore.
I’m needed, she said. To keep peace and harmony between them. It’s my burden and I am proud of it, Icey!
God bless ye. God bless ye, signed the old woman and closed the screen door and stood with old Walt watching as she left: the hearts of them both full of blind and troubled concern.
Willa walked down the dust of the lonely lane, into the tranquillity of the summer night. A thick mist had crept in from the river and now the moon illumined it to a glowing meadow of white beyond her in the rolling bottoms. Off in the distance the single flame of gas blossomed in the yard lamp beneath the oak, and Willa hurried toward it, yearning for the solace and comfort of her bed; there was so much praying to be done this night. The pearly flute of the raincrow drifted through the darkness to her and upriver—beyond the hills—the faint, soft voice of the old river queen sounded for the bend. Willa moved through the open gate and up the tanbark walk. More than ever this night her heart was full of the curious and nudging sadness that had come over her since that strange and wonderful night in the hotel room: her honeymoon, the turning point in her life; the eve of Salvation. But now something stayed her at the bottom step of the porch and she stood in the darkness with the fireflies drifting past her and heard Preacher’s voice within the house and the prattle of the little girl in bright counterpoint to it and Willa thought: She, at least, loves him. John will never love him because he is full of the old evil of the father but my little Pearl loves him. They are together now in the parlor, she thought warmly. And Harry is telling her a dear old Bible story. But still she paused, womanlike, curious, listening to their voices and the thump and feathery scramble of a June bug against the screen.
John is bad, Pearl said. We won’t let him be with us, will we?
No indeed! boomed Preacher softly. We’ll have our own talk—just you and me.
About secrets, said Pearl. Tell me a secret, please.
Aw, have a heart! exclaimed Preacher. That ain’t fair. I told you my secret—all about knowin’ your dad. Now it’s your turn.
All right, then! What secret shall I tell?
Well—you might start in by tellin’ me how old you are!
That’s no secret! I’m five—going on six!
Well, sure, now! That’s no secret, is it? Then how about this. What’s your name?
Pearl chuckled outrageously.
You’re just fooling, she said. That’s no secret, either. My name’s Pearl!
Tut! Tut! cried Preacher, in mock dismay. Then I reckon I’ll have to try again—
Tell me another secret! cried Pearl. About my dad!
Aw, no. Now it’s your turn. You have to tell me a secret now.
All right. Then will you tell me another one?
Yes! I will! I will!
He paused a moment and Willa stood, smiling, listening happily. The night wind drifted slowly through the house and she could hear the cold tinkle of the Chinese wind chimes far off in the pantry.
Where’s the money hid?
But now Pearl grew still again, biting her finger, thinking of plumb-bad John locked in the room like an evil prince, behind the black door, with the chicken bone in his hand.
John’s bad, she said softly.
Yes! Yes! Never mind about John now. Where’s the money hid? said Preacher, and the voice was choking a little, the madness so very close now to the dark pool’s surface, the gar circling wildly in the sun-dappled shadows of the shoals.
But John made me swear, she breathed.
And now he could contain it no more. The game was played out; the toys swept up and dumped in the box and the lid clamped down and the children’s hour was done. The gar darted up from the green depths and now the ripples broke. His voice was as swift and solid in the evening silence as the thump of a butcher’s cleaver in the block.
Where’s the money! Tell me, you little bitch, or I’ll tear your arm off!
Willa’s mind swung back into focus and she smiled and thought: I am standing here in the darkness and I am dreaming. It is a silly dream I am dreaming and directly I will wake up and I will pray again. Praise the Lord! Bless his Holy Name!
Tell me!
Pearl flung the doll to the carpet and tore loose from him and fled screaming through the golden lamplight just as Willa moved smiling across the threshold. Preacher caught himself against the hall tree and the face he turned to her seemed stunned: the head shook as if in disbelief at this miscalculation and then as swiftly as the drawing of a blind the face fell again to a mask of utter and timeless composure.
Willa! I didn’t expect you home so soon!
I was worried. The kids—What’s the matter with Pearl?
He shrugged and passed the fingers named Love wearily across his brow.
It’s that boy, he sighed with a patient smile. He’s been talking to her again about that—money. I locked him in his room, my dear. He’s scared that poor little girl half out of her wits. Willa, what in time are we goin’ to do with that boy?
I don’t know, she breathed, moving past him toward the muffled voice of weeping in a closet somewhere, hoping that he would not touch her nor follow, moving now with some old, undamaged instinct toward her child.
—
Amen! she whispered at last, and he had lain there in the dark listening to her praying throughout that solid hour of whispering: of the pained and tortured catalog of her own transgressions and those of her children.
Are you through? he said clearly.
What?
Through praying, he said. Because—
Yes, I’m through, Harry.
—because I want to know something—and you’d better tell me the truth!
What?
The truth! What did she tell you in there?—in the bedroom when you seen her to bed and heard her prayers? What did she—
Who? I don’t—
Pearl. You know who. What did she say I done to her?
Willa lay still for a while, smiling still, because it was not real.
What did she tell you?
You know what, Harry.
And you were listening outside the parlor window so you knew it all anyway. Weren’t you? What did you hear, Willa?
You know—
Yes, I know. I want you to say it. What did you hear? What did she tell you I done to her? Why did she say she was crying?
It’s not
in the river is it, Harry? It’s somewhere here amongst us—still tainting us with its stink—
Answer me!
The fingers were around the soft flesh of her thin arm, naked under the prim, old woman’s nightdress: his grip banding her arm bone like a ring of thin, cold steel.
And Ben never told you he throwed it in the river? Did he? She said.
Then she thought: Why is my lip bleeding? Why can I taste the blood running back into my teeth and tongue? And then she remembered that he had struck her with the dry, shiny flat of his hand and it had happened only a second before though it seemed like a long time.
—then the children know where it’s hid? she said. John knows? Is that it?
And the dark gar wheeled patiently in his pool again, the long sentry of circling dusk and shadow, of wisdom and darkness under the sun-dappled pool. He had risen from the bed now and stood silhouetted against the square of moonlit window and his head was cocked a little toward the light as if harking to a whisper late in coming, and she thought: Why, he is so little. He is only a child. He looks like a little boy in his nightshirt. It was Ben who was the grown-up, dirty man.
Then it is still here, she went on. Somewhere amongst us?
The child did not move yet, the whisper had not come.
So you must have known it all along, Harry, she said, and heard the great boat blow in the channel again, closer now, feeling its way through the darkness and the fog.
But that ain’t why you married me, Harry. I know that much. It couldn’t be that because the Lord just wouldn’t let it. He is a God of Love! He made you marry me so’s you could show me the Way and the Life and the Salvation of my soul! Ain’t that so, Harry?
But he did not hear because now the night was filled with Whispers and they were for him. And she knew suddenly that he was not going to ever say anything more to her as long as she lived; that whatever was going to happen next would be not words but a doing. But still she kept on.
—so you might say it was the money that brung us together, she chanted softly to the ceiling, not looking to see whatever it was he was fumbling after among his clothes on the back of the rocking chair. The rest of it don’t matter, Harry—all the common, dirty old ways I used to lead with Ben! I got shed of them, Harry, like a body would take off a dirty old dress. Because that night in the hotel at Sistersville you showed me the way—
